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TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 




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TALES OF 
A WAYSIDE INN 



BY 



HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

<Stfre fttoer?i&e $vz$$ Cambribge 

1913 



• A! 



COPYRIGHT, 1872 AND 1873, BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

COPYRIGHT, 1891, I9OO, AND I9OI, BY ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW 

COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



©CI.A347420 



CONTENTS 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. *** 

Introductory Note . . • • • • • 9 
Part First. 

Prelude - . . 15 

The Landlord's Tale : Paul Revere' s Ride . 25 

Interlude . 30 

The Student's Tale: The Falcon op Ser 

Federigo 32 

Interlude . . 41 

The Spanish Jew's Tale: The Legend op 

Rabbi Ben Levi 42 

Interlude 45 

The Sicilian's Tale : King Robert of Sicily 46 

Interlude : 53 

The Musician's Tale : The Saga op King Olap. 

I. The Challenge op Thor . . 54 
II. King Olaf's Return . . . .56 

III. Thora of Rimol .... 59 

IV. Queen Sigrid the Haughty . .61 
V. The Skerry of Shrieks . . 63 

VI. The Wraith of Odin . . .67 
VII. Iron-Beard . . . . . 69 

VIII. Gudrun 72 

IX. Thangbrand the Priest . . 74 

X. Raud the Strong . . . .77 

XI. Bishop Sigurd of Salten Fiord . 79 

XII. King Olaf's Christmas . . » 82 

XIII. The Building of the Long Serpent 85 



CONTENTS 

XIV. The Crew of the Long Serpent . 88 
XV. A Little Bird in the Air . . 90 
XVI. Queen Thyri and the Angelica 

Stalks 92 

XVII. King Svend of the Forked Beard 95 

XVIII. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald . 98 

XIX. King Olaf's War-Horns . . 99 

XX. Einar Tamberskelver . . 102 

XXI. King Olaf's Death-Drink . . 104 

XXII. The Nun of Nidaros . . .106 

Interlude 109 

The Theologian's Tale: Torquemada . Ill 

Interlude 119 

The Poet's Tale: The Birds of Killing- 
worth 120 

Finale .129 

Part Second. 

Prelude . .131 

The Sicilian's Tale: The Bell of Atri . 135 

Interlude 139 

The Spanish Jew's Tale: Kambalu . . 141 

Interlude 144 

The Student's Tale: The Cobbler of Ha- 

genau 145 

Interlude 153 

The Musician's Tale: The Ballad of Car- 

milhan 155 

Interlude 164 

The Poet's Tale: Lady Wentworth . . 166 

Interlude 171 

The Theologian's Tale: The Legend Beau- 
tiful 173 

Interlude . . . . . . . . . 177 

The Student's Second Tale: The Baron of 

St. Castine . 179 

Finale .188 



CONTENTS 7 

Part Third. 

Prelude .191 

The Spanish Jew's Tale: Azrael „ . 194 

Interlude 195 

The Poet's Tale : Charlemagne . . . 197 

Interlude 199 

The Student's Tale: Emma and Eginhard 201 

Interlude 208 

The Theologian's Tale: Elizabeth . . 211 

Interlude 226 

The Sicilian's Tale: The Monk of Casal- 

Maggiore 228 

Interlude . . ... . . . . 238 

The Spanish Jew's Second Tale : Scander- 

beg 239 

Interlude 245 

The Musician's Tale : The Mother's Ghost 248 

Interlude 251 

The Landlord's Tale : The Rhyme of Sir 

Christopher 253 

Finale 258 

NOTES .261 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 

The Wayside Inn, Front View . . . Frontispiece 
" As ancient is this hostelry 
As any in the land may be." 

The Parlor 16 ^ 

" The fire-light, shedding over all 
The splendor of its ruddy glow, 
Filled the whole parlor large and low." 

The Howe Coat-of-Arms 20 l/ 

" And in the parlor, full in view, 
His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 
Upon the wall in colors blazed." 

The Parlor 30 

On the table is the bust of Paul Revere. 
On either side of the coat-of-arms may be seen the window- 
panes, containing — 

" The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 
Writ near a century ago, 
By the great Major Molineaux, 
Whom Hawthorne has immortal made." 

The Wayside Inn, from the Southeast . . . . 42 

The Wayside Inn, from the Southwest . . . . 54 * 

The Wayside Inn, Southwest Entrance . . . . 88 '" 

The Porch 108 v 

" J stand without here in the porch." 



10 ILLUSTRATIONS 

Late Afternoon in the Garden 132 ^ 

" The door wide open, on the air 
Breathed round about him a perfume 
Of damask roses in full bloom." 

The Bridge of Stone . . . . . . . 134 v 

"Leaning o'er the bridge of stone, 
To watch the speckled trout glide by." 

The Bridge of Stone 140 v 

A winter view from the same point. 

The Bar-room . . . 178 

" But did not find him in the bar, 
A place that landlords most frequent." 

Through the Elms 192 ^ 

View of the Inn from the main road. 

The Old Road in Winter . 210 

" Yet how grand is the winter! How spotless the 
snow is, and perfect ! " 

The Wayside Inn from the Southeast in Winter . 226 l/ 

The Oaks 260 ^ 

u To hear the oaks' 1 mysterious roar, 
And breathe the wholesome country air." 



NOTE TO THE VISITORS' EDITION 

When Longfellow made his first trip to Europe 
in 1826, he went from Boston to New York by way 
of Albany and the Hudson River, making the first 
part of the journey by stage-coach. Travelers by 
this route usually stopped at the old " Red-Horse 
Tavern " in Sudbury, and on this journey it is 
likely that the poet saw for the first time the an- 
cient hostelry which he often revisited, and finally 
immortalized as " The Wayside Inn." 

The Howes of Sudbury, who kept the " Red- 
Horse Tavern," were a long-lived race. David 
Howe (or How), who built the house in 1686, 
kept the Inn for sixty years ; his son Ezekiel was 
its landlord for fifty years and was succeeded by 
his son Adam, who reigned forty-four years. 
Lyman Howe, the fourth of the name, was " the 
landlord " of the poem, and when he died in 1860, 
after twenty years of inn-keeping, the estate passed 
to other hands, four generations of Howes having 
held it for one hundred and seventy-four years. 
In 1897 it came into the hands of the present owner, 
Mr. Edward R. Lemon, who is the eighth succes- 
sive proprietor of a house now two hundred and 
twenty-seven years old. 

Unfortunately, the original furnishings of the 
house, some of which would now be of rare interest 
and value, were sold at auction when the Howe 



4 NOTE TO THE VISITORS' EDITION 

family parted with the property. Mr. Lemon has 
made up for the loss so far as possible by moving 
his own large collection of rare old furniture and 
pictures to the Inn. 

The lovely valley and the winding road, shaded 
by grand old oaks, which Longfellow mentioned 
in his diary of October 11, 1862, may still be seen, 
but the house, which has been carefully restored 
to preserve its original appearance, is no longer a 
" tumble-down old building," nor does it suggest 

" A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall 
Now somewhat fallen to decay, 
With weather-stains upon the wall, 
And stairways worn and crazy doors, 
And creaking and uneven floors." 

Yet it still retains the inviting and comfortable 
aspect of the houses 

" Built in the old Colonial day, 
When men lived in a grander way 
With ampler hospitality." 

The place is shaded by some fine old oaks and 
splendid elms ; a few hundred yards to the left one 
may still see the place where the young Sicilian 
was in the habit of 

" leaning o'er the bridge of stone 
To watch the speckled trout glide by;" 

while on the front of the house, swinging in the 
wind, is an old weather-beaten board, where, even 
to-day, " the Red-Horse prances on the sign." 

In the parlor, the same old fireplace sheds " the 
splendor of its ruddy glow." Over the mantel is 
the landlord's coat-of-arms, "well framed and 



NOTE TO THE VISITORS' EDITION 5 

glazed," with the scroll reading " by the name of 
How," and all the heraldic symbols described in 
the prelude of the poem. On either side of the 
coat-of-arms are dingy-looking panes of glass, 
taken from the windows and now carefully pre- 
served. Major Molineaux's inscription may be 
easily read on one of the panes : — 

" What do you think ? 

Here is good drink, 
Perhaps you may not know it; 

If not in haste, 

Do stop and taste! 
You merry folk will show it." 

On the other is his name, Wm. Molineaux, Jr., 
Esq., and the date, June 24, 1774, Boston. 

Across the hall is the bar-room, old-fashioned 
enough, with its open fireplace, where a pair of 
miniature Hessians serve as andirons, its swords 
and gun over the mantel, its simple Colonial fur- 
niture, and its atmosphere of hospitality and good 
cheer. 

The old public road through which the stage- 
coaches used to drive to the door is now within the 
private property of the Inn. When the state road 
was built, the Highway Board, through the liber- 
ality of the present landlord, was induced to change 
the road so as to leave the old approaches unim- 
paired and to preserve the old oaks, which Long- 
fellow repeatedly mentions as one of the chief 
attractions of the place. 

May, 1913. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 

The plan . for a group of stories under the fic- 
tion of a company of story-tellers at an inn ap- 
pears to have visited Mr. Longfellow after he had 
made some progress with the separate tales. The 
considerable collection under the title of The Saga 
of King Olaf was indeed written at first with the 
design of independent publication. " The thought 
struck me this morning," writes the poet, February 
25, 1859, " that a very good poem might be writ- 
ten on the Saga of King Olaf, who converted the 
North to Christianity. Read the old Saga in the 
Heimskringla, Laing's translation. The Chal- 
lenge of Thor will serve as a prelude." This poem 
had been written about ten years before as pro- 
logue or Introitus to the second part of Christus. 

Nearly two years passed before he took up the 
task in earnest ; then, in November, 1860, " with 
all kinds of interruptions," he says, he wrote fifteen 
of the lyrics in as many days, and a few days after- 
ward completed the whole of the Saga. Mean- 
while he had written and published Paul Revere' s 
Hide in The Atlantic, and before the publication 
of his volume he had printed in the same magazine 
one of the lyrics of the Saga and The Legend of 
Rabbi Ben Levi. Just when he determined upon 



10 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

the framework of The Wayside Inn does not 
appear ; it is quite possible that he had connected 
The Saga of King Olaf, which had been lying by 
for two or three years with his friend Ole Bull, and 
that the desire to use so picturesque a figure had 
suggested a group of which the musician should 
be one. Literature had notable precedents for 
the general plan of a company at an inn, but 
whether the actual inn at Sudbury came to local- 
ize his conception, or was itself the cause of the 
plan, is not quite clear. He notes in his diary, Oc- 
tober 11, 1862, " Write a little upon the Wayside 
Tnn y — a beginning, only " ; but an entry for the 
last day of the same month seems to indicate that 
he had had the Sudbury inn in his mind and now 
visited it to give local form and color to his fancy. 

October ends with a delicious Indian-summer day. 
Drive with Fields to the old Red-Horse Tavern in Sud- 
bury, — alas, no longer an inn ! A lovely valley ; the 
winding road shaded by grand old oaks before the house. 
A rambling, tumble-down old building, two hundred 
years old ; and till now in the family of the Howes, who 
have kept an inn for one hundred and seventy-five years. 
In the old time, it was a house of call for all travellers 
from Boston westward. 

As such, Mr. Longfellow must have made pass- 
ing acquaintance with the tavern, when in 1826 
he made a stage-coach journey from Boston to Al- 
bany ; he may also well have known the inn in its 
more recent days through report of his friend Dr. 
Parsons and Mr. Luigi Monti, who made it a re- 
sort for themselves and friends. At any rate his 
intention was now clear enough, for a few dayif 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 11 

after his visit he writes to his companion, Mr. 
Fields, " The Sudbury Tales go on famously. I 
have now five complete, with a great part of the 
Prelude: 9 

The work went on rapidly after this, for with 
The Saga of King Olaf and other poems on hand 9 
he needed to write but little more to furnish the 
group he had fashioned with tales enough to rep= 
resent them. He sent the book to the printer in 
April, 1863, under the title of The Sudbury Tales, 
but in August wrote to Mr. Fields : "I am afraid 
we have made a mistake in calling the new volume 
The Sudbury Tales, Now that 1 see it announced 
I do not like the title. Sumner cries out against 
it, and has persuaded me, as I think he will you, 
to come back to The Wayside Inn. Pray think 
as we do." 

The book as originally planned consisted of the 
first part, and was published November 25, 1863, 
in an edition of fifteen thousand copies, an indica- 
tion of the confidence which the publishers, had in 
the poet's popularity. 

The disguises of characters were so slight that 
readers easily recognized most of them at once, 
and Mr. Longfellow himself never made any mys- 
tery of their identity. Just after the publication 
of the volume he wrote to a correspondent in Eng- 
land : — 

The Wayside Inn has more foundation in fact than 
you may suppose. The town of Sudbury is about 
twenty miles from Cambridge. Some two hundred 
years ago, an English family, by the name of Howe, 
built there a country house, which has remained in the 



12 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

family down to the present time, the last of the race 
dying but two years ago. Losing their fortune, they 
became inn-keepers ; and for a century the Red-Horse 
Inn has flourished, going down from father to son. The 
place is just as I have described it, though no longer an 
inn. All this will account for the landlord's coat-of- 
arms, and his being a justice of the peace, and his being 
known as " the Squire," — things that must sound 
strange in English ears. All the characters are reaL 
The musician is Ole Bull ; the Spanish Jew, Israel Ed- 
rehi, whom I have seen as I have painted him, etc. etc. 

It is easy to fill up the etc. of Mr. Longfellow's 
catalogue. The poet is T. W. Parsons, the trans- 
lator of Dante ; the Sicilian, Luigi Monti, whose 
name occurs often in Mr. Longfellow's Life as a 
familiar friend ; the theologian, Professor Daniel 
Tread well, a physicist of genius who had also 
a turn for theology ; the student, Henry "Ware 
Wales, a scholar of promise who had travelled 
much, who died early, and whose tastes appear in 
the collection of books which he left to the library 
of Harvard College. This group was collected by 
the poet's fancy ; in point of fact three of them, Par- 
sons, Monti, and Treadwell, were wont to spend 
their summer months at the inn. 

The form was so agreeable that it was easy to 
extend it afterward so as to include the tales which 
the poet found it in his mind to write. The Sec- 
ond Day was published as one of the Three Books 
of Song in 1872 ; The Third Part formed the 
principal portion of Aftermath in 1873, and sub- 
sequently the three parts were brought together, 
as now, into a complete volume. The third part, 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 13 

begun on the last day of December, 1872, was 
finished on his sixty-sixth birthday, February 27, 
1873. The recital in melodious verse of those 
various stories, which had a special charm for 
the poet as he grew older, and the graceful, easy, 
half careless arrangement of all as the imaginary 
discourse of friends, was a diversion as well as a 
poetic task to one whose own experience had in 
a measure withdrawn him from the free, happy 
social intercourse of his manhood. When one 
considers the dates of the earlier formation of the 
Tales of a Wayside Inn, one sees with what ex- 
clusion of his deeper self the poet entered in spirit 
into the story-telling company that warmed itself 
before Squire Howe's blazing logs. It was at the 
same time that he was entrusting himself to the 
ghostly companionship of Dante. 

The persons who were charged with the story- 
telling were so individualized by nationality or 
profession as to afford a generous scope in the 
character of the tales. By means of a Norwegian 
musician the poet was enabled to draw upon his 
knowledge of Northern legend ; his Sicilian may 
well, in person, have reminded him of the stories 
which had their origin in Boccaccio or in Italian 
folk-lore ; the Spanish Jew gave him an oppor- 
tunity to draw upon the Talmud, which his friend 
Mr. Scherb had opened to his view ; and the Poet, 
the Student, and the Landlord increased the range 
of his material. The only story which was wholly 
of Mr. Longfellow's invention was The Birds of 
Killing worth* In accordance with the general plan 
of this edition, the several tales are furnished with 



14 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

head-notes only when Mr. Longfellow's own mem- 
oranda give some account of the circumstances un- 
der which he wrote. In the notes at the end of 
the volume will be found further explanation of 
the origin of the several tales, and occasional elu- 
cidation of historical points. An interesting mon- 
ograph appeared in Berlin, 1884, under the title : 
Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn unci ihre 
Quellen nebst Nachweisen und Uhtersuchungen 
iiber die vom Dichter bearbeiteten Stoffe, by Her- 
mann Varnhagen. Eecourse has been had to this 
for some critical suggestions. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

PART FIRST. 

PRELUDE. 

THE WAYSIDE INN. 

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 

Across the meadows bare and brown, 

The windows of the wayside inn 

Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves 

Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves 

Their crimson curtains rent and thin. 

As ancient is this hostelry 
As any in the land may be, 
Built in the old Colonial day, 
When men lived in a grander way, 
With ampler hospitality ; 
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, 
Now somewhat fallen to decay, 
With weather-stains upon the wall, 
And stairways worn, and crazy doors, 
And creaking and uneven floors, 
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. 

A region of repose it seems, 

A place of slumber and of dreams, 



16 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Remote among the wooded hills ! 
For there no noisy railway speeds, 
Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds , 
But noon and night, the panting teams 
Stop under the great oaks, that throw 
Tangles of light and shade below, 
On roofs and doors and window-sills e 
Across the road the barns display 
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, 
Through the wide doors the breezes blow, 
The wattled cocks strut to and fro, 
And, half effaced by rain and shine, 
The Red Horse prances on the sign. 
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode 
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust 
Went rushing down the county road, 
And skeletons of leaves, and dust, 
A moment quickened by its breath, 
Shuddered and danced their dance of death, 
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead 
Mysterious voices moaned and fled. 

But from the parlor of the inn 

A pleasant murmur smote the ear, 

Like water rushing through a weir : 

Oft interrupted by the din 

Of laughter and of loud applause, 

And, in each intervening pause, 

The music of a violin. 

The fire-light, shedding over all 

The splendor of its ruddy glow, 

Filled the whole parlor large and low ; 

It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, 




- ° o 

— o > 

bCT3 * 

•rZ a © 



PRELUDE 17 

It touched with more than wonted grace 
Fair Princess Mary's pictured face ; 
It bronzed the rafters overhead, 
On the old spinet's ivory keys 
-It played inaudible melodies, i 

It crowned the sombre clock with flame, 
The hands, the hours, the maker's name, 
And painted with a livelier red 
The Landlord's coat-of-arms again ; 
And, flashing on the window-pane, 
Emblazoned with its light and shade 
The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 
Writ near a century ago, 
By the great Major Molineaux, 
Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. 

Before the blazing fire of wood 
Erect the rapt musician stood ; 
And ever and anon he bent 
His head upon his instrument, 
And seemed to listen, till he caught 
Confessions of its secret thought, — 
The joy, the triumph, the lament, 
The exultation and the pain ; 
Then, by the magic of his art, 
He soothed the throbbings of its heart, 
And lulled it into peace again. 

Around the fireside at their ease 
There sat a group of friends, entranced 
With the delicious melodies ; 
Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 



18 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

To rest beneath its old oak trees. 
The fire-light on their faces glanced, 
Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
And, though of different lands and speech, 
, Each had his tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased and please. 
And while the sweet musician plays, 
Let me in outline sketch them all, 
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

But first the Landlord will I trace ; 

Grave in his aspect and attire ; 

A man of ancient pedigree, 

A Justice of the Peace was he, 

Known in all Sudbury as " The Squire/' 

Proud was he of his name and race, 

Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 

And in the parlor, full in view, 

His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 

Upon the wall in colors blazed ; 

He beareth gules upon his shield, 

A chevron argent in the field, 

With three wolf's heads, and for the crest 

A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed 

Upon a helmet barred ; below 

The scroll reads, " By the name of Howe." 

And over this, no longer bright, 

Though glimmering with a latent light, 

Was hung the sword his grandsire bore 

In the rebellious days of yore, 

Down there at Concord in the fight. 



PRELUDE 19 

A youth was there, of quiet ways, 

A Student of old books and days, 

To whom all tongues and lands were known, 

And yet a lover of his own ; 

With many a social virtue graced, 

And yet a friend of solitude ; 

A man of such a genial mood 

The heart of all things he embraced, 

r And yet of such fastidious taste, 

\ He never found the best too good. 
Books were his passion and delight, 
And in his upper room at home 
Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, 
In vellum bound, with gold bedight, 
Great volumes garmented in white, 
Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. 
He loved the twilight that surrounds 
The border-land of old romance ; 
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, 
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, 
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, 
And mighty warriors sweep along, 
Magnified by the purple mist, 
The dusk of centuries and of song. 
The chronicles of Charlemagne, 
Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, 
Mingled together in his brain 
With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, 
Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, 
Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, 
Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. 

A young Sicilian, too, was there ; 
In sight of Etna born and bred, i 



20 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Some breath of its volcanic air 

Was glowing in his heart and brain, 

And, being rebellious to his liege, 

After Palermo's fatal siege, 

Across the western seas he fled, 

In good King Bomba's happy reign. 

His face was like a summer night. 

All flooded with a dusky light ; 

His hands were small ; his teeth shone white 

As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke ; 

His sinews supple and strong as oak ; 

Clean shaven was he as a priest, 

Who at the mass on Sunday sings, 

Save that upon his upper lip 

His beard, a good palm's length at least, 

Level and pointed at the tip, 

Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. 

The poets read he o'er and o'er, 

And most of all the Immortal Four 

Of Italy ; and next to those, 

The story-telling bard of prose, 

Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales 

Of the Decameron, that make 

Fiesole's green hills and vales 

Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. 

Much too of music was his thought ; 

The melodies and measures fraught 

With sunshine and the open air, 

Of vineyards and the singing sea 

Of his beloved Sicily ; 

And much it pleased him to peruse 

The songs of the Sicilian muse, — 

Bucolic songs by Meli sung 




THE HOWE COAT-OF-ARMS 

And in the parlor, full in view, 

His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 

Upon the wall in colors blazed." 



PRELUDE 21 

In the familiar peasant tongue, 
That made men say, " Behold ! once more 
The pitying gods to earth restore 
Theocritus of Syracuse ! " 

A Spanish Jew from Alicant 

With aspect grand and grave was there ; 

Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 

And attar of rose from the Levant. 

Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 

Abraham or Isaac, or at least 

Some later Prophet or High-Priest ; 

With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, 

And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, 

The tumbling cataract of his beard. 

His garments breathed a spicy scent 

Of cinnamon and sandal blent, 

Like the soft aromatic gales 

That meet the mariner, who sails 

Through the Moluccas, and the seas 

That wash the shores of Celebes. 

All stories that recorded are 

By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, 

And it was rumored he could say 

The Parables of Sandabar, 

And all the Fables of Pilpay, 

Or if not all, the greater part ! 

Well versed was he in Hebrew books, 

Talmud and Targum, and the lore 

Of Kabala ; and evermore 

There was a mystery in his looks ; 

His eyes seemed gazing far away, 

As if in vision or in trance 



22 TALES OF A WA YS1DE INN 

He heard the solemn sackbut play, 
And saw the Jewish maidens dance. 

A Theologian, from the school 
Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there 
Skilful alike with tongue and pen, 
He preached to all men everywhere 
The Gospel of the Golden Kule, 
The New Commandment given to men, 
Thinking the deed, and not the creed, 
"Would help us in our utmost need. 
With reverent feet the earth he trod, 
Nor banished nature from his plan, 
But studied still with deep research 
To build the Universal Church, 
Lofty as in the love of God, 
And ample as the wants of man. 

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse 

Was tender, musical, and terse ; 

The inspiration, the delight, 

The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, 

Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem 

The revelations of a dream, 

All these were his ; but with them came 

No envy of another's fame ; 

He did not find his sleep less sweet 

For music in some neighboring street, 

Nor rustling hear in every breeze 

The laurels of Miltiades. 

Honor and blessings on his head 

While living, good report when dead, 

Who, not too eager for renown, 

Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown ! 



PRELUDE 23 

Last the Musician, as he stood 

Illumined by that fire of wood ; 

Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, 

His figure tall and straight and lithe, 

And every feature of his face 

Revealing his Norwegian race ; 

A radiance, streaming from within, 

Around his eyes and forehead beamed, 

The Angel with the violin, 

Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 

He lived in that ideal world 

Whose language is not speech, but song ; 

Around him evermore the throng 

Of elves and sprites their dances whirled ; 

The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled 

Its headlong waters from the height ; 

And mingled in the wild delight 

The scream of sea-birds in their flight, 

The rumor of the forest trees, 

The plunge of the implacable seas, 

The tumult of the wind at night, 

Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, 

Old ballads, and wild melodies 

Through mist and darkness pouring forth, 

Like Elivagar's river flowing 

Out of the glaciers of the North. 

The instrument on which he played 
Was in Cremona's workshops made, 
By a great master of the past, 
Ere yet was lost the art divine ; 
Fashioned of maple and of pine, 
That in Tyrolean forests vast 



24 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Had rocked and wrestled with the blast : 
Exquisite was it in design, 
Perfect in each minutest part, 
A marvel of the lutist's art ; 
And in its hollow chamber, thus, 
The maker from whose hands it came 
Had written his unrivalled name, — 
" Antonius Stradivarius." 

And when he played, the atmosphere 
Was filled with magic, and the ear 
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, 
Whose music had so weird a sound, 
The hunted stag forgot to bound, 
The leaping rivulet backward rolled, 
The birds came down from bush and tree, 
The dead came from beneath the sea, 
The maiden to the harper's knee ! 

The music ceased ; the applause was loud, 
The pleased musician smiled and bowed ; 
The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, 
The shadows on the wainscot stirred, 
And from the harpsichord there came 
A ghostly murmur of acclaim, 
A sound like that sent down at night 
By birds of passage in their flight, 
From the remotest distance heard. 

Then silence followed ; then began 
A clamor for the Landlord's tale, — 
The story promised them of old, 
They said, but always left untold ; 



PAUL REVERE 1 S RIDE 25 

And he, although a bashful man, 
And all his courage seemed to fail, 
Finding excuse of no avail, 
Yielded ; and thus the story ran* 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 

PAUL REVERE's RIDE. 

"April 5, 1860. Go with Sumner to Mr. H , of the North 

End, who acts as guide to the ' Little Britain ' of Boston. We 
go to the Copps Hill burial ground and see the tomb of Cotton 
Mather, his father and his son ; then to the old North Church, 
which looks like a parish church in London. We climb the 
tower to the chime of bells, now the home of innumerable 
pigeons. From this tower were hung the lanterns as a signal that 
the British troops had left Boston for Concord." The next day 
Mr. Longfellow set up his poem of Paul Revere 1 s Ride, and on the 
19th noted in his diary: "I wrote a few lines in Paul Revere 1 s 
Hide; this being the day of that achievement." 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, " If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 



26 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

For the country folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said, " Good night ! " and with muffled 

oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon like a prison bar, 
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North 

Church, 
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 

Line 18. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, 
Line 19. Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread* 



PAUL RE VE RE'S RIDE 27 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 

In their night-encampment on the hill, 

Wrapped in silence so deep and still 

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, * 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a shadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

A line of black that bends and floats 

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 



28 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a 

spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 
That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the 

light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his 

flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 
He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock, 

When he crossed the bridge into Medf ord town* 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer's dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog, 

That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 



PAUL REVERE' S RIDE 2 

It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall. 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo f orevermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof -beats of that steed, 

&nd the midnight message of Paul Revere. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 



INTERLUDE. 

The Landlord ended thus his tale, 
Then rising took down from its nail 
The sword that hung there, dim with dust, 
And cleaving to its sheath with rust, 
And said, "This sword was in the fight." 
The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 
44 It is the sword of a good knight, 
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail ; 
What matter if it be not named 
Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, 
Excalibar, or Aroundight, 
Or other name the books record? 
Your ancestor, who bore this sword 
As Colonel of the Volunteers, 
Mounted upon his old gray mare, 
Seen here and there and everywhere, 
To me a grander shape appears 
Than old Sir William, or what not, 
Clinking about in foreign lands 
With iron gauntlets on his hands, 
And on his head an iron pot ! " 

All laughed ; the Landlord's face grew red 
As his escutcheon on the wall ; 
He could not comprehend at all . 
The drift of what the Poet said , 
For those who had been longest dead 
Were always greatest in his eyes ; 
And he was speechless with surprise 
To see Sir William's plumed head 




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INTERLUDE 81 

Brought to a level with the rest, 
And made the subject of a jest. 
And this perceiving, to appease 
The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, 
The Student said, with careless ease, 
M The ladies and the cavaliers, 
The arms, the loves, the courtesies, 
The deeds of high emprise, I sing ! 
Thus Ariosto says, in words 
That have the stately stride and ring 
Of armed knights and clashing swords. 
Now listen to the tale I bring ; 
Listen ! though not to me belong 
The flowing draperies of his song, 
The words that rouse, the voice that charms' 
The Landlord's tale was one of arms, 
Only a tale of love is mine, 
Blending the human and divine, 
A tale of the Decameron, told 
In Palmieri's garden old, 
By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, 
While her companions lay around, 
And heard the intermingled sound 
Of airs that on their errands sped, 
And wild birds gossiping overhead, 
And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, 
And her own voice more sweet than all, 
Telling the tale, which, wanting these, 
Perchance may lose its power to please." 



32 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 

One summer morning, when the sun was hot, 

Weary with labor in his garden-plot, 

On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, 

Ser Federigo sat among the leaves 

Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, 

Hung its delicious clusters overhead. 

Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed 

The river Arno, like a winding road, 

And from its banks were lifted high in air 

The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair ; 

To him a marble tomb, that rose above 

His wasted fortunes and his buried love. 

For there, in banquet and in tournament, 

His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, 

To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, 

Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, 

Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, 

The ideal woman of a young man's dream. 

Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, 

To this small farm, the last of his domain, 

His only comfort and his only care 

To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear ; 

His only forester and only guest 

His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, 

Whose willing hands had found so light of yore 

The brazen knocker of his palace door, 

Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch, 

That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDER1G0 33 

Companion of his solitary ways, 
Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, 
On him this melancholy man bestowed 
The love with which his nature overflowed. 

And so the empty-handed years went round, 
Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound, 
And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused 
With folded, patient hands, as he was used, 
And dreamily before his half -closed sight 
Floated the vision of his lost delight. 
Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird 
Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard 
The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare 
The headlong plunge through eddying gulfs of air, 
Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, 
Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, 
And looking at his master, seemed to say, 
" Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day ? " 

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase ; 

The tender vision of her lovely face, 

I will not say he seems to see, he sees 

In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, 

Herself, yet not herself ; a lovely child 

With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, 

Coming undaunted up the garden walk, 

And looking not at him, but at the hawk. 

" Beautiful falcon ! " said he, " would that I 

Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly ! " 

The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start 

Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, 

As an geolian harp through gusty doors 

Of some old ruin its wild music pours. 



34 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

" Who is thy mother, my fair boy ? " he said. 
His hand laid softly on that shining head. 
" Monna Giovanna. Will you let me stay 
A little while, and with your falcon play ? 
We live there, just beyond your garden wall, 
In the great house behind the poplars tall." 

So he spake on ; and Federigo heard 
As from afar each softly uttered word, 
And drifted onward through the golden gleams 
And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, 
As mariners becalmed through vapors drift, 
And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, 
And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, 
And voices calling faintly from the shore ! 
Then waking from his pleasant reveries, 
He took the little boy upon his knees, 
And told him stories of his gallant bird, 
Till in their friendship he became a third. 

Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, 

Had come with friends to pass the summer time 

In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, 

O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still ; 

With iron gates, that opened through long lines 

Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, 

And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, 

And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown, 

And fountains palpitating in the heat, 

And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet. 

Here in seclusion, as a widow may, 

The lovely lady whiled the hours away, 

Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDER1G0 36 

Herself the stateliest statue among all, 
And seeing more and more, with secret joy, 
Her husband risen and living in her boy, 
Till the lost sense of life returned again, 
Not as delight, but as relief from pain. 
Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, 
Stormed down the terraces from length to length ; 
The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, 
And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. 
But his chief pastime was to watch the flight 
Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, 
Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, 
Then downward stooping at some distant call ; 
And as he gazed full often wondered he 
Who might the master of the falcon be, 
Until that happy morning, when he found 
Master and falcon in the cottage ground. 

And now a shadow and a terror fell 

On the great house, as if a passing-bell 

Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious 

room 
With secret awe and preternatural gloom ; 
The petted boy grew ill, and day by day 
Pined with mysterious malady away. 
The mother's heart would not be comforted ; 
Her darling seemed to her already dead, 
And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, 
" What can I do to comfort thee ? " she cried. 
At first the silent lips made no reply, 
But, moved at length by her importunate cry, 
" Give me," he answered, with imploring tone, 
" Ser Federigo's falcon for my own ! " 



36 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

No answer could the astonished mother make ; 
How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake, 
Such favor at a luckless lover's hand, 
Well knowing that to ask was to command ? 
Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, 
In all the land that falcon was the best, 
The master's pride and passion and delight, 
And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. 
But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less 
Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness, 
So promised, and then promising to keep 
Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. 

The morrow was a bright September morn ; 
The earth was beautiful as if new-born ; 
There was that nameless splendor everywhere, 
That wild exhilaration in the air, 
Which makes the passers in the city street 
Congratulate each other as they meet. 
Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, 
Passed through the garden gate into the wood, 
Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen 
Of dewy sunshine showering down between. 
The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace 
Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face ; 
Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll 
From the gulf -stream of passion in the soul ; 
The other with her hood thrown back, her hair 
Making a golden glory in the air, 
Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, 
Her young heart singing louder than the thrush. 
So walked, that morn, through mingled light and 
shade, 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO 37 

Each by the other's presence lovelier made, 
Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, 
Intent upon their errand and its end. 

They found Ser Federigo at his toil, 

Like banished Adam, delving in the soil ; 

And when he looked and these fair women spied, 

The garden suddenly was glorified ; 

His long-lost Eden was restored again, 

And the strange river winding through the plain 

No longer was the Arno to his eyes, 

But the Euphrates watering Paradise ! 

Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, 

And with fair words of salutation said : 

" Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, 

Hoping in this to make some poor amends 

For past unkindness. I who ne'er before 

Would even cross the threshold of your door, 

I who in happier days such pride maintained, 

Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained, 

This morning come, a self-invited guest, 

To put your generous nature to the test, 

And breakfast with you under your own vine." 

To which he answered : " Poor desert of mine, 

Not your unkindness call it, for if aught 

Is good in me of feeling or of thought, 

From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs 

All sorrows, all regrets of other days." 

And after further compliment and talk, 
Among the asters in the garden walk 

Line 29. Among the dahlias in the garden walk 



88 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

He left his guests ; and to his cottage turned, 

And as he entered for a moment yearned 

For the lost splendors of the days of old, 

The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, 

And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, 

By want embittered and intensified. 

He looked about him for some means or way 

To keep this unexpected holiday ; 

Searched every cupboard, and then searched again, 

Summoned the maid, who came, but came in 

vain ; 
" The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said, 
" There 's nothing in the house but wine and 

bread." 
Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook 
His little bells, with that sagacious look, 
Which said, as plain as language to the ear, 
If anything is wanting, I am here ! " 
Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird ! 
The master seized thee without further word. 
Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round ; all 



me 



The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, 
The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, 
The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood, 
All these f orevermore are ended now ; 
No longer victor, but the victim thou ! 

Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, 
Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, 
Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot, 
The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot ; 
Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDER1G0 39 

And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. 

Ser Federigo, would not these suffice 

Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice ? 

When all was ready, and the courtly dame 

With her companion to the cottage came, 

Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell 

The wild enchantment of a magic spell ! 

The room they entered, mean and low and small, 

Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, 

With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown ; 

The rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; 

He ate celestial food, and a divine 

Flavor was given to his country wine, 

And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, 

A peacock was, or bird of paradise ! 

When the repast was ended, they arose 
And passed again into the garden-close. 
Then said the lady, " Far too well I know, 
Remembering still the days of long ago, 
Though you betray it not, with what surprise 
You see me here in this familiar wise. 
You have no children, and you cannot guess 
What anguish, what unspeakable distress 
A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, 
Nor how her heart anticipates his will. 
And yet for this, you see me lay aside 
All womanly reserve and check of pride, 
And ask the thing most precious in your sight, 
Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight, 
Which if you find it in your heart to give, 
My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live." 



40 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, 

With tears of love and pity in his eyes : 

" Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task 

So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. 

One little hour ago, if I had known 

This wish of yours, it would have been my own. 

But thinking in what manner I could best 

Do honor to the presence of my guest, 

I deemed that nothing worthier could be 

Than what most dear and precious was to me ; 

And so my gallant falcon breathed his last 

To furnish forth this morning our repast." 

In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, 
The gentle lady turned her eyes away, 
Grieving that he such sacrifice should make 
And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, 
Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, 
That nothing she could ask for was denied ; 
Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate 
With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. 

Three days went by, and lo ! a passing-bell 
Tolled from the little chapel in the dell ; 
Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, 
Breathing a prayer, " Alas ! her child is dead ! " 
Three months went by ; and lo ! a merrier chime 
Eang from the chapel bells at Christmas-time ; 
The cottage was deserted, and no more 
Ser Federigo sat beside its door, 
But now, with servitors to do his will, 
In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, 
Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side 



INTERLUDE 41 

Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, 

Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, 

Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, 

High-perched upon the back of which there stood 

The image of a falcon carved in wood, 

And underneath the inscription, with a date, 

u All things come round to him who will but wait." 



INTERLUDE. 

Soon as the story reached its end, 
One, over eager to commend, 
Crowned it with injudicious praise ; 
And then the voice of blame found vent, 
And fanned the embers of dissent 
Into a somewhat lively blaze. 

The Theologian shook his head ; 
" These old Italian tales," he said, 
" From the much-praised Decameron down 
Through all the rabble of the rest, 
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd ; 
The gossip of a neighborhood 
In some remote provincial town, 
A scandalous chronicle at best ! 
They seem to me a stagnant fen, 
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, 
Where a white lily, now and then, 
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds 
And deadly nightshade on its banks ! " 

To this the Student straight replied, 
" For the white lily, many thanks ! 



42 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

One should not say, with too much pride, 

Fountain, I will not drink of thee ! 

Nor were it grateful to forget 

That from these reservoirs and tanks 

Even imperial Shakespeare drew 

His Moor of Venice, and the Jew, 

And Romeo and Juliet, 

And many a famous comedy. " 

Then a long pause ; till some one said, 
" An Angel is flying overhead ! " 
At these words spake the Spanish Jew, 
And murmured with an inward breath : 
" God grant, if what you say be true, 
It may not be the Angel of Death ! " 
And then another pause ; and then, 
Stroking his beard, he said again : 
" This brings back to my memory 
A story in the Talmud told, 
That book of gems, that book of gold, 
Of wonders many and manifold, 
A tale that often comes to me, 
And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, 
And never wearies nor grows old." 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. 

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read 

A volume of the Law, in which it said, 

" No man shall look upon my face and live." 

And as he read, he prayed that God would give 



THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI 43 

His faithful servant grace with mortal eye 
To look upon His face and yet not die. 

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, 

And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age, 

He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, 

Holding a naked sword in his right hand. 

Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, 

Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. 

With trembling voice he said, " What wilt thou 

here?" 
The angel answered, " Lo ! the time draws near 
When thou must die ; yet first, by God's de* 

cree, 
Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee." 
Eeplied the Rabbi, " Let these living eyes 
First look upon my place in Paradise." 

Then said the Angel, " Come with me and look." 

Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, 

And rising, and uplifting his gray head, 

" Give me thy sword," he to the Angel said, 

" Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way." 

The angel smiled and hastened to obey, 

Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, 

And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down, 

Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, 

Might look upon his place in Paradise. 

Then straight into the city of the Lord 
The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's sword, 
And through the streets there swept a sudden 
breath 



44 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Of something there unknown, which men call 

death. 
Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried, 
" Come back ! " To which the Rabbi's voice re. 

plied, 
" No ! in the name of God, whom I adore, 
I swear that hence I will depart no more ! " 

Then all the Angels cried, " O Holy One, 
See what the son of Levi here hath done' 
The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, 
And in Thy name refuses to go hence ! " 
The Lord replied, " My Angels, be not wroth ; 
Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath? 
Let him remain ; for he with mortal eye 
Shall look upon my face and yet not die." 

Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death 
Heard the great voice, and said, with panting 

breath, 
" Give back the sword, and let me go my way." 
Whereat the Eabbi paused, and answered, " Nay ! 
Anguish enough already hath it caused 
Among the sons of men." And while he paused 
He heard the awful mandate of the Lord 
Resounding through the air, "Give back tho 

sword ! " 

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer ; 
Then said he to the dreadful Angel, " Swear 
No human eye shall look on it again ; 
But when thou takest away the souls of men, 
Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, 



INTERLUDE 45 

Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord." 
The Angel took the sword again, and swore, 
And walks on earth unseen f orevermore. 



INTERLUDE. 

He ended : and a kind of spell 
Upon the silent listeners fell. 
His solemn manner and his words 
Had touched the deep, mysterious chords 
That vibrate in each human breast 
Alike, but not alike confessed. 
The spiritual world seemed near ; 
And close above them, full of fear, 
Its awful adumbration passed, 
A luminous shadow, vague and vast. 
They almost feared to look, lest there, 
Embodied from the impalpable air, 
They might behold the Angel stand, 
Holding the sword in his right hand. 

At last, but in a voice subdued, 

Not to disturb their dreamy mood, 

Said the Sicilian : " While you spoke, 

Telling your legend marvellous, 

Suddenly in my memory woke 

The thought of one, now gone from us, -« 

An old Abate, meek and mild, 

My friend and teacher, when a child, 

Who sometimes in those days of old 

The legend of an Angel told, 

Which ran, as I remember, thus." 



46 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

■ And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Apparelled in magnificent attire, 

With retinue of many a knight and squire, 

On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 

And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. 

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 

Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 

He caught the words, " Deposuit potentes 

De sede, et exaltavit humiles ; " 

And slowly lifting up his kingly head 

He to a learned clerk beside him said, 

" What mean these words ? " The clerk made an* 

swer meet, 
" He has put down the mighty from their seat, 
And has exalted them of low degree." 
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
" 'T is well that such seditious words are sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; 
For unto priests and people be it known, 
There is no power can push me from my throne ! * 
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, 
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 

When he awoke, it was already night ; 

The church was empty, and there was no light, 

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and 

faint, 
Lighted a little space before some saint. 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY 47 

He started from his seat and gazed around, 
But saw no living thing and heard no sound. 
He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; 

1 He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, 
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, 
And imprecations upon men and saints. 

The sounds reechoed from the roof and walls 
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. 

At length the sexton, hearing from without 
The tumult of the knocking and the shout, 
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, 
Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there ? " 
Half choked with rage, King Kobert fiercely said, 
-" Open : 't is I, the King ! Art thou afraid ? " 
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, 
" This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " 
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide ; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, 
But leaped into* the blackness of the night, 
And vanished like a spectre from his sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

2 &nd Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 
Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, 
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, 
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate ; 
Bushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his 

rage 
To right and left each seneschal and page, 



48 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, 
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; 
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, 
Until at last he reached the banquet-room, 
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume<» 

There on the dais sat another king, 
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, 
King Robert's self in features, form, and height, 
But all transfigured with angelic light ! 
It was an Angel ; and his presence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 
Though none the hidden Angel recognize. 

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, 

The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, 

Who met his look of anger and surprise 

With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 

Then said, " Who art thou ? and why com'st thou 

here?" 
To which King Robert answered with a sneer, 
" I am the King, and come to claim my own 
From an impostor, who usurps my throne ! " 
And suddenly, at these audacious words, 
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their 

swords ; 
The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 
" Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou 
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped 

cape, 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY 49 

Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, 
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall! " 

Deaf to King Kobert's threats and cries and 

prayers, 
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; 
A group of tittering pages ran before, 
And as they opened wide the folding-door, 
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, 
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, 
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 
With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!"^ 

Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, 
He said within himself, " It was a dream ! " 
But the straw rustled as he turned his head, 
There were the cap and bells beside his bed, 
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, 
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, 
And in the corner, a revolting shape, 
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 

Days came and went ; and now returned again 

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 

Under the Angel's governance benign 

The happy island danced with corn and wine, 

And deep within the mountain's burning breast 

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

Meanwhile King Eobert yielded to his fate, 
Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 



50 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, 

With look bewildered and a vacant stare, 

Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, 

By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, 

His only friend the ape, his only food 

What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 

And when the Angel met him on his way, 

And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, 

Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 

The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 

" Art thou the King ? " the passion of his woe 

Burst from him in resistless overflow, 

And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling 

The haughty answer back, " I am, I am the King ! '* 

Almost three years were ended ; when there came 

Ambassadors of great repute and name 

From Yalmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane 

By letter summoned them forthwith to come 

On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 

The Angel with great joy received his guests, 

And gave them presents of embroidered vests, 

And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, 

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 

Then he departed with them o'er the sea 

Into the lovely land of Italy, 

Whose loveliness was more resplendent made 

By the mere passing of that cavalcade, 

With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the 

stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 
And lo ! among the menials, in mock state, 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY 51 

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, 
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, 
The solemn ape demurely perched behind, 
King Robert rode, making huge merriment 
In all the country towns through which they went. 

I 
The Pope received them with great pomp and blare 
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, 
Giving his benediction and embrace, 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with prayers 
He entertained the Angel unawares, 
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, 
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, 
" I am the King ! Look, and behold in me 
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily ! 
This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, 
Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 
Do you not know me ? does no voice within 
Answer my cry, and say we are akin ? " 
The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, 
Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; 
The Emperor, laughing, said, " It is strange sport 
To keep a madman for thy Fool at court ! " 
And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 
Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the Holy Week went by, 
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; 
The presence of the Angel, with its light, 
Before the sun rose, made the city bright, 
And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, 
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 



52 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, 
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, 
He felt within a power unf elt before, 
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, 
He heard the rushing garments of the Lord 
Sweep through the silent air, ascending heaven* 
ward. 

And now the visit ending, and once more 
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, 
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again 
The land was made resplendent with his train, 
Flashing along the towns of Italy 
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. 
And when once more within Palermo's wall, 
And, seated on the throne in his great hall, 
He heard the Angelus from convent towers, 
As if the better world conversed with ours, 
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, 
And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 
And when they were alone, the Angel said, 
" Art thou the King ? " Then, bowing down his 

head, 
King Eobert crossed both hands upon his breast, 
And meekly answered him : " Thou knowest best! 
My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 
And in some cloister's school of penitence, 
Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, 
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven ! " 

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face 
A holy light illumined all the place, 

Line 12. Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. 



INTERLUDE 53 

And through the open window, loud and clear, 
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, 
Above the stir and tumult of the street: 
" He has put down the mighty from their seat, 
And has exalted them of low degree ! " 
And through the chant a second melody 
Eose like the throbbing of a single string : 
" I am an Angel, and thou art the King ! " 

King Robert, who was standing near the throne, 

Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 

But all apparelled as in days of old, 

With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; 

And when his courtiers came, they found him there 

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. 

INTERLUDE. 

AlND then the blue-eyed Norseman told 

A Saga of the days of old. 
" There is," said he, " a wondrous book 

Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, 

Of the dead kings of Norroway, — 

Legends that once were told or sung 

In many a smoky fireside nook 

Of Iceland, in the ancient day, 

By wandering Saga-man or Scald ; 
* Heimskringla ' is the volume called ; 

And he who looks may find therein 

The story that I now begin." 

And in each pause the story made 
Upon his violin he played, 



54 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

As an appropriate interlude, 

Fragments of old Norwegian tunes 

That bound in one the separate runes, 

And held the mind in perfect mood, 

Entwining and encircling all 

The strange and antiquated rhymes 

With melodies of olden times ; 

As over some half -ruined wall, 

Disjointed and about to fall, 

Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, 

And keep the loosened stones in place 9 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 

THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

I. 
THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. 

I am the God Thor, 
I am the War God, 
I am the Thunderer ! 
Here in my Northland, 
My fastness and fortress, 
Eeign I forever! 

Here amid icebergs 
Rule I the nations ; 
This is my hammer, 
Miolner the mighty ; 
Giants and sorcerers 
Cannot withstand it ! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 55 

These are the gauntlets 
Wherewith I wield it, 
And hurl it afar off ; 
This is my girdle ; 
Whenever I brace it, 
Strength is redoubled ! 

The light thou beholdest 
Stream through the heavens, 
In flashes of crimson, 
Is but my red beard 
Blown by the night-wind, 
Affrighting the nations ! 

Jove is my brother ; 
Mine eyes are the lightning ; 
The wheels of my chariot 
Roll in the thunder, 
The blows of my hammer 
Ring in the earthquake ! 

Force rules the world still, 
Has ruled it, shall rule it ; 
Meekness is weakness, 
Strength is triumphant, 
Over the whole earth 
StiU is it Thor's-Day ! 

Thou art a God too, 
O Galilean ! 
And thus single-handed 
Unto the combat, 
Gauntlet or Gospel, 
Here I defy thee ! 



56 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

II. 

KING OLAF'S RETURN. 

And King Olaf heard the cry, 
Saw the red light in the sky, 

Laid his hand upon his sword, 
As he leaned upon the railing, 
And his ships went sailing, sailing 

Northward into Drontheim fiord. 

There he stood as one who dreamed ; 
And the red light glanced and gleamed 

On the armor that he wore ; 
And he shouted, as the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

" I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 

To avenge his father slain, 
And reconquer realm and reign, 

Came the youthful Olaf home, 
Through the midnight sailing, sailing, 
Listening to the wild wind's wailing, 

And the dashing of the foam. 

To his thoughts the sacred name 
Of his mother Astrid came, 

And the tale she oft had told 
Of her flight by secret passes 
Through the mountains and morasses, 

To the home of Hakon old. 

Then strange memories crowded back 
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 57 

And a hurried flight by sea ; 
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture 
Of the sea-fight, and the capture, 

And the life of slavery. 

How a stranger watched his face 
In the Esthonian market-place, 

Scanned his features one by one, 
Saying, " We should know each other ; 
I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother, 

Thou art Olaf , Astrid's son ! " 

Then as Queen Allogia's page, 
Old in honors, young in age, 

Chief of all her men-at-arms ; 
Till vague whispers, and mysterious, 
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, 

Filling him with strange alarms. 

Then his cruisings o'er the seas, 
Westward to the Hebrides 

And to Scilly's rocky shore ; 
And the hermit's cavern dismal, 
Christ's great name and rites baptismal 

In the ocean's rush and roar. 

All these thoughts of love and strife 
Glimmered through his lurid life, 

As the stars' intenser light 
Through the red flames o'er him trailing, 
As his ships went sailing, sailing 

Northward in the summer night. 

Line 2. Of grim Vikings, and their rapture 
Line 3. In the sea-fight, and the capture, 



58 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Trained for either camp or court, 
Skilful in each manly sport, 

Young and beautiful and tall ; 
Art of warfare, craft of chases, 
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, 

Excellent alike in all. 

When at sea, with all his rowers, 
He along the bending oars 

Outside of his ship could run. 
He the Smalsor Horn ascended, 
And his shining shield suspended 

On its summit, like a sun. 

On the ship-rails he could stand, 
Wield his sword with either hand, 

And at once two javelins throw ; 
At all feasts where ale was strongest 
Sat the merry monarch longest, 

First to come and last to go. 

Norway never yet had seen 
One so beautiful of mien, 

One so royal in attire, 
When in arms completely furnished, 
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, 

Mantle like a flame of fire. 

Thus came Olaf to his own, 
When upon the night- wind blown 

Passed that cry along the shore ; 
And he answered, while the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

" I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 59 

III. 

THORA OF RIMOL. 

K Thora of Rimol ! hide me ! hide me ! 
Danger and shame and death betide me ! 
For Olaf the King is hunting me down 
Through field and forest, through thorp and 
town ! " 

Thus cried Jarl Hakon 

To Thora, the fairest of women. 

" Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee 
Neither shall shame nor death come near thee ! 
But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie 
Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty." 

Thus to Jarl Hakon 

Said Thora, the fairest of women. 

So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker 
Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker, 
As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, 
Through the forest roads into Orkadale, 

Demanding Jarl Hakon 

Of Thora, the fairest of women. 

" Rich and honored shall be whoever 
The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever ! " 
Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, 
Through the breathing-holes of the darksome cave. 
Alone in her chambeiyrV ' 
Wept Thora, the fairest of women. 



60 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Said Karker, the crafty, " I will not slay thee ! 
For all the king's gold I will never betray thee ! " 
" Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl, 
And then again black as the earth ? " said the 
Earl. 
More pale and more faithful 
Was Thora, the fairest of women. 

From a dream in the night the thrall started, 

saying, 
" Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was lay- 
ing!" 
And Hakon answered, " Beware of the king ! 
He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring." 
At the ring on her finger 
Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. 

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encum- 
bered, 
But screamed and drew up his feet as he slum- 
bered ; 
The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife, 
And the Earl awakened no more in this life. 
But wakeful and weeping 
Sat Thora, the fairest of women. 

At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, 
Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging ; 
One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's, 
And the people are shouting from windows and 
walls ; 
While alone in her chamber 
Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 61 

IV. 

QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft 
In her chamber, that looked over meadow and 
croft. 

Heart's dearest, 

Why dost thou sorrow so? 

The floor with tassels of fir was besprent, 
Filling the room with their fragrant scent. 

She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine, 
The air of summer was sweeter than wine. 

Like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay 
Between her own kingdom and Norroway. 

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, 

The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned. 

Her maidens were seated around her knee, 
Working bright figures in tapestry. 

Vnd one was singing the ancient rune 
Jf Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun. 

And through it, and round it, and over it all 
Sounded incessant the waterfall. 

The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, 
From the door of Lade*'s Temple old. 



62 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, 

But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift. 

She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain, 
Who smiled, as they handed it back again. 

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way, 
Said, " Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say ? " 

And they answered : " O Queen ! if the truth must 

be told, 
The ring is of copper, and not of gold ! " 

The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek, 
She only murmured, she did not speak : 

" If in his gifts he can faithless be, 
There will be no gold in his love to me." 

A footstep was heard on the outer stair, 
And in strode King Olaf with royal air. 

He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of 

love, 
And swore to be true as the stars are above. 

But she smiled with contempt as she answered: 

" O King, 
Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the 

ring ? " 

And the King : " Oh speak not of Odin to me, 
The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be." 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 63 

Looking straight at the King, with her level brows, 
She said, " I keep true to my faith and my vows." 

Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with 

gloom, 
He rose in his anger and strode through the room 

" Why, then, should I care to have thee ? " be 

said, — 
" A faded old woman, a heathenish jade ! " 

His zeal was stronger than fear or love, 
And he struck the Queen in the face with his 
glove. 

Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled, 
And the wooden stairway shook with his tread. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath, 
u This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death ! " 

Heart's dearest, 

Why dost thou sorrow so ? 



THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. 

Now from all King Olaf 's farms 

His men-at-arms 
Gathered on the Eve of Easter ; 
To his house at Angvalds-ness 

East they press, 
Drinking with the royal feaster* 



64 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Loudly through the wide-flung door 

Came the roar 
Of the sea upon the Skerry ; 
And its thunder loud and near 

Eeached the ear, 
Mingling with their voices merry. 

"Hark ! " said Olaf to his Scald, 

Halfred the Bald, 

" Listen to that song, and learn it ! 

Half my kingdom would I give, 

As I live, 
If by such songs you would earn it ! 

" For of all the runes and rhymes 

Of all times, 
Best I like the ocean's dirges, 
When the old harper heaves and rocks, 

His hoary locks 
Flowing and flashing in the surges ! " 

Halfred answered : "lam called 

The Unappalled ! 
Nothing hinders me or daunts me. 
Hearken to me, then, O King, 

While I sing 
The great Ocean Song that haunts me." 

66 1 will hear your song sublime 

Some other time," 
Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, 
And retires ; each laughing guest 

Applauds the jest ; 
Then they sleep till day is dawning. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 65 

Pacing up and down the yard, 

King Olaf's guard 
Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping 
O'er the sands, and up the hill, 

Gathering still 
Eound the house where they were sleeping. 

It was not the fog he saw, 

Nor misty flaw, 
That above the landscape brooded ,• 
It was Eyvind Kallda's crew 

Of warlocks blue 
With their caps of darkness hooded ! 

Round and round the house they go, 

Weaving slow 
Magic circles to encumber 
And imprison in their ring 

Olaf the King, 
As he helpless lies in slumber. 

Then athwart the vapors dun 

The Easter sun 
Streamed with one broad track of splendor ! 
In their real forms appeared 

The warlocks weird, 
Awful as the Witch of Endor. 

Blinded by the light that glared, 

They groped and stared, 
Round about with steps unsteady ; 
From his window Olaf gazed, 
And, amazed, 
M Who are these strange people ? " said he. 



66 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

" Eyvind Kallda and his men ! " 

Answered then 
From the yard a sturdy farmer ; 
While the men-at-arms apace 

Filled the place, 
Busily buckling on their armor. 

From the gates they sallied forth, 

South and north, 
Scoured the island coast around them, 
Seizing all the warlock band, 

Foot and hand 
On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. 

And at eve the king again 

Called his train, 
And, with all the candles burning, 
Silent sat and heard once more 

The sullen roar 
Of the ocean tides returning. 

Shrieks and cries of wild despair 

Filled the air, 
Growing fainter as they listened ; 
Then the bursting surge alone 

Sounded on ; — 
Thus the sorcerers were christened ! 

* Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, 
Your ocean-rhyme," 
Cried King Olaf : " it will cheer me ! " 
Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, 

"The Skerry of Shrieks 
Sings too loud for you to hear me ! ** 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 67 

VI. 

THE WRAITH OP ODIN. 

The guests were loud, the ale was strong, 
King Olaf feasted late and long ; 
The hoary Scalds together sang ; 
O'erhead the smoky rafters rang. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The door swung wide, with creak and din ; 
A blast of cold night-air came in, 
And on the threshold shivering stood 
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King exclaimed, " O graybeard pale ! 
Come warm thee with this cup of ale." 
The foaming draught the old man quaffed, 
The noisy guests looked on and laughed. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then spake the King : " Be not afraid : 
Sit here by me." The guest obeyed, 
And, seated at the table, told 
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

And ever, when the tale was o'er, 

The King demanded yet one more ; 
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, 
'T is late, O King, and time for bed." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang, 



3 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The King retired ; the stranger guest 
Followed and entered with the rest ; 
The lights were out, the pages gone, 
But still the garrulous guest spake on. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

As one who from a volume reads, 
He spake of heroes and their deeds, 
Of lands and cities he had seen, 
And stormy gulfs that tossed between. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then from his lips in music rolled 
The Havamal of Odin old, 
With sounds mysterious as the roar 
Of billows on a distant shore. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

*' Do we not learn from runes and rhymes 
Made by the gods in elder times, 
And do not still the great Scalds teach 
That silence better is than speech ? " 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Smiling at this, the King replied, 
46 Thy lore is by thy tongue belied ; 
For never was I so enthralled 
Either by Saga-man or Scald." 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The Bishop said, " Late hours we keep ! 
Night wanes, O King ! 't is time for sleep I n 
Then slept the King, and when he woke 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 

The guest was gone, the morning broke. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

They found the doors securely barred, 
They found the watch-dog in the yard, 
There was no footprint in the grass, 
And none had seen the stranger pass. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

King Olaf crossed himself and said : 
" I know that Odin the Great is dead ; 
Sure is the triumph of our Faith, 
The one-eyed stranger was his wraith." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 



VII. 

IRON-BEARD. 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, 
Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, 
Sending his signal through the land of Drontheim. 

And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere 
Gathered the farmers far and near, 
With their war weapons ready to confront him. 

Ploughing under the morning star, 
Old Iron-Beard in Yriar 
Heard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh. 

He wiped the sweat-drops from his brow, 
Unharnessed his horses from the plough, 
And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf. 



70 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

He was the churliest of the churls ; 
Little he cared for king or earls ; 
Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming pas- 
sions. 

Hodden-gray was the garb he wore, 
And by the Hammer of Thor he swore ; 
He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions. 

But he loved the freedom of his farm, 
His ale at night, by the fireside warm, 
Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses. 

He loved his horses and his herds, 
The smell of the earth, and the song of birds, 
His well-filled barns, his brook with its water- 
cresses. 

Huge and cumbersome was his frame ; 
His beard, from which he took his name, 
Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant, 

So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, 
The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, 
On horseback, in an attitude defiant. 

And to King Olaf he cried aloud, 
Out of the middle of the crowd, 
That tossed about him like a stormy ocean «. 

" Such sacrifices shalt thou bring 
To Odin and to Thor, O King, 
As other kings have done in their devotion ! " 

Line 18. On horseback, with an attitude defiant. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 71 

King Olaf answered : " I command 
This land to be a Christian land ; 
Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes ! 

" But it you ask me to restore 
Your sacrifices, stained with gore, 
Then will I offer human sacrifices ! 

" Not slaves and peasants shall they be, 
But men of note and high degree, 
Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting ! ,? 

Then to their Temple strode he in, 
And loud behind him heard the din 
Of his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely fight* 
ing. 

There in the Temple, carved in wood, 
The image of great Odin stood, 
And other gods, with Thor supreme among them. 

King Olaf smote them with the blade 
Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid, 
And downward shattered to the pavement flung 
them. 

At the same moment rose without, 
From the contending crowd, a shout, 
A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing. 

And there upon the trampled plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and the assailing. 



72 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

King Olaf from the doorway spoke : 
" Choose ye between two things, my folk. 
To be baptized or given up to slaughter ! " 

And seeing their leader stark and dead, 
The people with a murmur said, 
$' O King, baptize us with thy holy water." 

So all the Drontheim land became 
A Christian land in name and fame, 
In the old gods no more believing and trusting. 

And as a blood-atonement, soon 
King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun ; 
And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting! 



vni. 

GUDRUN. 

On King Olaf 's bridal night 
Shines the moon with tender light, 
And across the chamber streams 
Its tide of dreams. 

At the fatal midnight hour, 
When all evil things have power, 
In the glimmer of the moon 
Stands Gudrun. 

Close against her heaving breast 
Something in her hand is pressed ; 
Like an icicle, its sheen 
Is cold and keen. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 73 

On the cairn are fixed her eyes 
Where her murdered father lies, 
And a voice remote and drear 
She seems to hear. 

"What a bridal night is this ! 
Cold will be the dagger's kiss ; 
Laden with the chill of death 
Is its breath. 

Like the drifting snow she sweeps 
To the couch where Olaf sleeps ; 
Suddenly he wakes and stirs, 
His eyes meet hers. 

" What is that," King Olaf said, 
" Gleams so bright above my head ? 
Wherefore standest thou so white 
In pale moonlight ? " 

" 'T is the bodkin that I wear 
When at night I bind my hair ; 
It woke me falling on the floor ; 
'T is nothing more." 

" Forests have ears, and fields have eyes ; 
Often treachery lurking lies 
Underneath the fairest hair ! 
Gudrun beware ! " 

Ere the earliest peep of morn 
Blew King Olaf 's bugle-horn ; 

Line 14. " Gleams so bright above thy head ? 



74 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And forever sundered ride 
Bridegroom and bride ! 



IX. 



THANGBRAND THE PRIEST. 

Short of stature, large of limb, 
Burly face and russet beard, 
All the women stared at him, 
When in Iceland he appeared. 
" Look ! " they said, 
With nodding head, 
" There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." 

All the prayers he knew by rote, 

He could preach like Chrysostom, 
From the Fathers he could quote, 
He had even been at Kome. 
A learned clerk, 
A man of mark, 
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

He was quarrelsome and loud, 

And impatient of control, 
Boisterous in the market crowd, 
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 

Would drink and swear, 
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

In his house this malcontent 
Could the King no longer bear, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 75 

So to Iceland he was sent 

To convert the heathen there, 
And away- 
One summer day 

Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

There in Iceland, o'er their books 
Pored the people day and night, 
But he did not like their looks, 
Nor the songs they used to write. 
" All this rhyme 
Is waste of time ! " 
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

To the alehouse, where he sat, 

Came the Scalds and Saga-men ; 
Is it to be wondered at 

That they quarrelled now and then, 
When o r er his beer 
Began to leer 
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest ? 

All the folk in Altafiord 

Boasted of their island grand ; 
Saying in a single word, 
" Iceland is the finest land 
That the sun 
Doth shine upon I " 
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

And he answered : " What 's the use 

Of this bragging up and down, 
When three women and one goose 



76 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Make a market in your town ! " 
Every Scald 
Satires scrawled 
On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

Something worse they did than that ; 

And what vexed him most of all 
Was a figure in shovel hat, 

Drawn in charcoal on the wall ; 
With words that go 
Sprawling below, 
« This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." 

Hardly knowing what he did, 

Then he smote them might and main, 
Thorvald Veile and Veterlid 
Lay there in the alehouse slain. 
" To-day we are gold, 
To-morrow mould ! " 
Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

Much in fear of axe and rope, 
Back to Norway sailed he then. 
« O King Olaf ! little hope 

Is there of these Iceland men ! " 
Meekly said, 
With bending head, 
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 11 



RAUD THE STRONG. 

" All the old gods are dead, 
All the wild warlocks fled ; 
But the White Christ lives and reigns, 
And throughout my wide domains 
His Gospel shall be spread ! " 
On the Evangelists 
Thus swore King Olaf. 

But still in dreams of the night 
Beheld he the crimson light, 
And heard the voice that defied 
Him who was crucified, 
And challenged him to the fight. 
To Sigurd the Bishop 
King Olaf confessed it. 

And Sigurd the Bishop said, 
46 The old gods are not dead, 
For the great Thor still reigns, 
And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft still is spread." 
Thus to King Olaf 
Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

** Far north in the Salten Fiord, 
By rapine, fire, and sword, 
Lives the Viking, Eaud the Strong * 
All the Godoe Isles belong 
To him and his heathen horde." 



78 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Thus went on speaking 
Sigurd the Bishop. 

" A warlock, a wizard is he, 
And lord of the wind and the sea ; 
And whichever way he sails, 
He has ever favoring gales, 
By his craft in sorcery." 

Here the sign of the cross 
Made devoutly King Olaf. 

" With rites that we both abhor, 
He worships Odin and Thor ; 
So it cannot yet be said, 
That all the old gods are dead, 
And the warlocks are no more," 
Flushing with anger 
Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

Then King Olaf cried aloud : 
w I will talk with this mighty Raud, 
And along the Salten Fiord 
Preach the Gospel with my sword, 
Or be brought back in my shroud ! " 

So northward from Drontheim 

Sailed King Olaf! 

lane 3. Here the sign of the cross made 
Line 9. Devoutly King Olaf. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF ?9 



XL 

BISHOP SIGURD OF SALTEN FIORD. 

Loud the angry wind was wailing 
As King Olaf's ships came sailing 
Northward out of Drontheim haven 
To the mouth of Salten Fiord, 

Though the flying sea-spray drenches 
Fore and aft the rowers' benches, 
Not a single heart is craven 

Of the champions there on board. 

All without the Fiord was quiet, 
But within it storm and riot, 
Such as on his Viking cruises 

Raud the Strong was wont to ride. 

And the sea through all its tide-ways 
Swept the reeling vessels sideways, 
As the leaves are swept through sluices, 
When the flood-gates open wide. 

" 'T is the warlock ! 't is the demon 

Raud ! " cried Sigurd to the seamen ; 
" But the Lord is not affrighted 

By the witchcraft of his foes." 

To the ship's bow he ascended, 
By his choristers attended, 
Round him were the tapers lighted, 
And the sacred incense rose. 



80 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, 
In his robes, as one transfigured, 
And the Crucifix he planted 

High amid the rain and mist. 

Then with holy water sprinkled 
All the ship ; the mass-bells tinkled : 
Loud the monks around him chanted, 
Loud he read the Evangelist. 

As into the Fiord they darted, 
On each side the water parted ; 
Down a path like silver molten 

Steadily rowed King Olaf 's ships ; 

Steadily burned all night the tapers, 
And the White Christ through the vapors 
Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, 
As through John's Apocalypse, — 

Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling 
On the little isle of Gelling ; 
Not a guard was at the doorway, 

Not a glimmer of light was seen. 

But at anchor, carved and gilded, 
Lay the dragon-ship he builded ; 
'T was the grandest ship in Norway, 
With its crest and scales of green. 

Up the stairway, softly creeping, 
To the loft where Raud was sleeping, 
With their fists they burst asunder 
Bolt and bar that held the door. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 81 

Drunken with sleep and ale they found him, 
Dragged him from his bed and bound him, 
While he stared with stupid wonder 
At the look and garb they wore. 

Then King Olaf said : " O Sea-King ! 
Little time have we for speaking, 
Choose between the good and evil ; 
Be baptized ! or thou shalt die ! " 

But in scorn the heathen scoffer 
Answered : " I disdain thine offer ; 
Neither fear I God nor Devil ; 

Thee and thy Gospel I defy ! " 

Then between his jaws distended, 
When his frantic struggles ended, 
Through King Olaf 's horn an adder, 

Touched by fire, they forced to glide. 

Sharp his tooth was as an arrow, 

As he gnawed through bone and marrow | 

But without a groan or shudder, 

Kaud the Strong blaspheming died. 

Then baptized they all that region, 
Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, 
Far as swims the salmon, leaping, 
Up the streams of Salten Fiord. 

In their temples Thor and Odin 
Lay in dust and ashes trodden, 
As King Olaf, onward sweeping, 

Preached the Gospel with his swordo 



82 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Then he took the carved and gilded 
Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, 
And the tiller single-handed 

Grasping, steered into the main. 

Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him, 
Southward sailed the ship that bore him, 
Till at Drontheim haven landed 
Olaf and his crew again. 



XII. 

KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS. 

At Drontheim, Olaf the King 
Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, 

As he sat in his banquet-hall, 
Drinking the nut-brown ale, 
With his bearded Berserks hale 

And tall. 

Three days his Yule-tide feasts 
He held with Bishops and Priests, 

And his horn filled up to the brim ; 
But the ale was never too strong, 
Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, 

For him. 

O'er his drinking-horn, the sign 
He made of the cross divine, 

As he drank, and muttered his prayers; 
But the Berserks evermore 
Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor 

Over theirs. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 83 

The gleams of the fire-light dance 
Upon helmet and hauberk and lance, 

And laugh in the eyes of the King ; 
And he cries to Halfred the Scald, 
Gray-bearded, wrinkled., and bald, 

« Sing ! " 

" Sing me a song divine, 
With a sword in every line, 

And this shall be thy reward." 
And he loosened the belt at his waist, 
And in front of the singer placed 

His sword. 

** Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, 
Wherewith at a stroke he hewed 

The millstone through and through, 
And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, 
Were neither so broad nor so long, 

Nor so true." 

Then the Scald took his harp and sang, 
And loud through the music rang 

The sound of that shining word ; 
And the harp-strings a clangor made, 
As if they were struck with the blade 

Of a sword. 

And the Berserks round about 
Broke forth into a shout 

That made the rafters ring : 
They smote with their fists on the board, 
And shouted, " Long live the Sword, 

And the King ! " 



84 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

But the King said, " O my son, 
I miss the bright word in one 

Of thy measures and thy rhymes." 
And Halfred the Scald replied, 
" In another 't was multiplied 

Three times." 

Then King Olaf raised the hilt 
Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, 

And said, " Do not refuse ; 
Count well the gain and the loss, 
Thor's hammer or Christ's cross : 

Choose ! " 

And Halfred the Scald said, " This 
In the name of the Lord I kiss, 

Who on it was crucified ! " 
And a shout went round the board, 
" In the name of Christ the Lord, 

Who died ! " 

Then over the waste of snows 
The noonday sun uprose, 

Through the driving mists revealed, 
Like the lifting of the Host, 
By incense-clouds almost 

Concealed. 

On the shining wall a vast 
And shadowy cross was cast 

From the hilt of the lifted sword, 
And in foaming cups of ale 
The Berserks drank " Was-hael ! 

To the Lord ! " 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 85 

XIII. 

THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, 

In his ship-yard by the sea, 
Whistling, said, " It would bewilder 
Any man but Thorberg Skafting, 

Any man but me!" 

Near him lay the Dragon stranded, 
Built of old by Eaud the Strong, 

And King Olaf had commanded 

He should build another Dragon, 
Twice as large and long. 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, 
As he sat with half -closed eyes, 

And his head turned sideways, drafting 

That new vessel for King Olaf 
Twice the Dragon's size. 

Round him busily hewed and hammered 

Mallet huge and heavy axe ; 
Workmen laughed and sang and clamored ; 
Whirred the wheels, that into rigging 

Spun the shining flax ! 

All this tumult heard the master, — 

It was music to his ear ; 
Fancy whispered all the faster, 
" Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting 
For a hundred year ! " 



86 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Workmen sweating at the forges 
Fashioned iron bolt and bar, 
Like a warlock's midnight orgies 
Smoked and bubbled the black caldron 
With the boiling tar. 

Did the warlocks mingle in it, 

Thorberg Skafting, any curse ? 
Could you not be gone a minute 
But some mischief must be doing, 
Turning bad to worse ? 

'T was an ill wind that came wafting 

From his homestead words of woe ; 
To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, 
Oft repeating to his workmen, 
Build ye thus and so. 

After long delays returning 

Came the master back by night ; 
To his ship-yard longing, yearning, 
Hurried he, and did not leave it 
Till the morning's light. 

** Come and see my ship, my darling ! " 
On the morrow said the King ; 

" Finished now from keel to carling ; 
Never yet was seen in Norway 
Such a wondrous thing ! " 

In the ship-yard, idly talking, 

At the ship the workmen stared : 
Some one, all their labor balking, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 87 

Down her sides had cut deep gashes, 
Not a plank was spared ! 

" Death be to the evil-doer ! " 

With an oath King Olaf spoke ; 

" But rewards to his pursuer ! " 
And with wrath his face grew redder 
Than his scarlet cloak. 

Straight the master-builder, smiling, 
Answered thus the angry King : 
" Cease blaspheming and reviling, 
Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting 
Who has done this thing ! " 

Then he chipped and smoothed the planking, 
Till the King, delighted, swore, 

With much lauding and much thanking, 
" Handsomer is now my Dragon 
Than she was before ! " 

Seventy ells and four extended 

On the grass the vessel's keel ; 

High above it, gilt and splendid, 

Rose the figure-head ferocious 
With its crest of steel. 

Then they launched her from the tressels, 

In the ship-yard by the sea ; 
She was the grandest of all vessels, 
Never ship was built in Norway 

Half so fine as she I 



88 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The Long Serpent was she christened, 

'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer ! 
They who to the Saga listened 
Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting 
For a hundred year ! 



XIV. 

THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay 
King Olaf's fleet assembled lay, 

And, striped with white and blue, 
Downward fluttered sail and banner, 
As alights the screaming lanner ; 
Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, 

The Long Serpent's crew. 

Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red ; 
Like a wolf's was his shaggy head, 

His teeth as large and white ; 
His beard, of gray and russet blended, 
Round as a swallow's nest descended ; 
As standard-bearer he defended 

Olaf's flag in the fight. 

Near him Kolbiorn had his place, 
Like the King in garb and face, 

So gallant and so hale ; 
Every cabin-boy and varlet 
Wondered at his cloak of scarlet ; 
Like a river, frozen and star-lit, 

Gleamed his coat of mail. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 89 

By the bulkhead, tall and dark, 
Stood Thrand Kame of Thelemark, 

A figure gaunt aud grand ; 
On his hairy arm imprinted 
Was an anchor, azure-tinted ; 
Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted 

Was his brawny hand. 

Eiuar Tamberskelver, bare 
To the winds his golden hair, 

By the mainmast stood ; 
Graceful was his form, and slender, 
And his eyes were deep and tender 
As a woman's, in the splendor 

Of her maidenhood. 

In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork 
Watched the sailors at their work : 

Heavens ! how they swore ! 
Thirty men they each commanded, 
Iron-sinewed, horny-handed, 
Shoulders broad, and chests expanded, 

Tugging at the oar. 

These, and many more like these, 
With King Olaf sailed the seas, 

Till the waters vast 
Filled them with a vague devotion, 
With the freedom and the motion, 
With the roll and roar of ocean 

And the sounding blast. 

When they landed from the fleet, 

How they roared through Drontheim's street, 



90 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Boisterous as the gale ! 
How they laughed and stamped and pounded, 
Till the tavern roof resounded, 
And the host looked on astounded 

As they drank the ale ! 

Never saw the wild North Sea 
Such a gallant company 

Sail its billows blue ! 
Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, 
Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald, 
Owned a ship so well apparelled, 

Boasted such a crew ! 



XV. 

A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIB. 

A little bird in the air 

Is singing of Thyri the fair, 

The sister of Svend the Dane ; 

And the song of the garrulous bird 

In the streets of the town is heard, 

And repeated again and again. 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

And flee away from each other. 

To King Burislaf , it is said, 
Was the beautiful Thyri wed, 

And a sorrowful bride went she ; 
And after a week and a day 
She has fled away and away 

From his town by the stormy sea. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 91 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

They say, that through heat and through cold, 
Through weald, they say, and through wold. 

By day and by night, they say, 

She has fled ; and the gossips report 

She has come to King Olaf's court, 

And the town is all in dismay. 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

And flee away from each other. 

It is whispered King Olaf has seen, 
Has talked with the beautiful Queen ; 
And they wonder how it will end ; 
For surely, if here she remain, 
It is war with King Svend the Dane, 
And King Burislaf the Vend ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

Oh, greatest wonder of all ! 

It is published in hamlet and hall, 

It roars like a flame that is fanned ! 
The King — yes, Olaf the King — 
Has wedded her with his ring, 
And Thyri is Queen in the land ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 



92 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

XVI. 

QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKS. 

Northward over Drontheim, 
Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, 
Sang the lark and linnet 
From the meadows green ; 

Weeping in her chamber, 
Lonely and unhappy, 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Sat King Olaf 's Queen. 

In at all the windows 
Streamed the pleasant sunshine, 
On the roof above her 
Softly cooed the dove ; 

But the sound she heard not, 
Nor the sunshine heeded, 
For the thoughts of Thyri 
Were not thoughts of love. 

Then King Olaf entered, 
Beautiful as morning, 
Like the sun at Easter 
Shone his happy face ; 

In his hand he carried 
Angelicas uprooted, 
With delicious fragrance 
Filling all the place. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 93 

Like a rainy midnight 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Even the smile of Olaf 

Could not cheer her gloom; 

Nor the stalks he gave her 
With a gracious gesture, 
And with words as pleasant 
As their own perfume. 

In her hands he placed them, 
And her jewelled fingers 
Through the green leaves glistened 
Like the dews of morn ; 

But she cast them from her, 
Haughty and indignant, 
On the floor she threw them 
With a look of scorn. 

" Eicher presents," said she, 
" Gave King Harald Gormson 
To the Queen, my mother, 
Than such worthless weeds ; 

" When he ravaged Norway, 
Laying waste the kingdom, 
Seizing scatt and treasure 
For her royal needs. 

" But thou darest not venture 
Through the Sound to Vendland, 
My domains to rescue 
From King Burislaf ; 



94 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

" Lest King Svend of Denmark, 
Forked Beard, my brother, 
Scatter all thy vessels 
As the wind the chaff." 

Then up sprang King Olaf, 
Like a reindeer bounding, 
With an oath he answered 
Thus the luckless Queen : 

u Never yet did Olaf 
Fear King Svend of Denmark ; 
This right hand shall hale him 
By his forked chin ! " 

Then he left the chamber, 
Thundering through the doorway, 
Loud his steps resounded 
Down the outer stair. 

Smarting with the insult, 
Through the streets of Drontheim 
Strode he red and wrathful, 
With his stately air. 

All his ships he gathered, 
Summoned all his forces, 
Making his war levy 
In the region round. 

Down the coast of Norway, 
Like a flock of sea-gulls, 
Sailed the fleet of Olaf 

Through the Danish Sound. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 95 

With his own hand fearless 
Steered he the Long Serpent, 
Strained the creaking cordage, 
Bent each boom and gaff ; 

Till in Vendland landing, 
The domains of Thyri 
He redeemed and rescued 
From King Burislaf . 

Then said Olaf, laughing, 
" Not ten yoke of oxen 
Have the power to draw us 
Like a woman's hair ! 

" Now will I confess it, 
Better things are jewels 
Than angelica stalks are 
For a queen to wear." 



XVII. 

KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD. 

Loudly the sailors cheered 
Svend of the Forked Beard, 
As with his fleet he steered 

Southward to Vendland ; 
Where with their courses hauled 
All were together called, 
Under the Isle of Svald 

Near to the mainland. 



96 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

After Queen Gunhild's death, 
So the old Saga saith, 
Plighted King Svend his faith 

To Sigrid the Haughty ; 
And to avenge his bride, 
Soothing her wounded pride, 
Over the waters wide 

King Olaf sought he. 

Still on her scornful face, 
Blushing with deep disgrace, 
Bore she the crimson trace 

Of Olaf 's gauntlet ; 
Like a malignant star, 
Blazing in heaven afar, 
Red shone the angry scar 

Under her frontlet. 

Oft to King Svend she spake, 
55 For thine own honor's sake 
Shalt thou swift vengeance take 

On the vile coward ! " 
Until the King at last, 
Gusty and overcast, 
Like a tempestuous blast 
Threatened and lowered. 

Soon as the Spring appeared, 
Svend of the Forked Beard 
High his red standard reared, 

Eager for battle ; 
While every warlike Dane, 
Seizing his arms again, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 97 

Left all unsown the grain, 
Unhoused the cattle. 

Likewise the Swedish King 
Summoned in haste a Thing, 
Weapons and men to bring 

In aid of Denmark; 
Eric the Norseman, too, 
As the war-tidings flew, 
Sailed with a chosen crew 

From Lapland and Finmark. 

So upon Easter day- 
Sailed the three kings away, 
Out of the sheltered bay, 

In the bright season ; 
With them Earl Sigvald came, 
Eager for spoil and fame ; 
Pity that such a name 

Stooped to such treason ! 

Safe under Svald at last, 
Now were their anchors cast, 
Safe from the sea and blast, 

Plotted the three kings ; 
While, with a base intent, 
Southward Earl Sigvald went, 
On a foul errand bent, 

Unto the Sea-kings. 

Thence to hold on his course 
Unto King Olaf's force, 
Lying within the hoarse 
Mouths of Stet-haven ; 



98 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Him to ensnare and bring 
Unto the Danish king, 
Who his dead corse would fling 
Forth to the raven ! 



XVIII. 

KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD. 

On the gray sea-sands 
King Olaf stands, 
Northward and seaward 
He points with his hands. 

With eddy and whirl 
The sea-tides curl, 
Washing the sandals 
Of Sigvald the Earl. 

The mariners shout, 
The ships swing about, 
The yards are all hoisted, 
The sails flutter out. 

The war-horns are played, 
The anchors are weighed, 
Like moths in the distance 
The sails flit and fade. 

The sea is like lead, 
The harbor lies dead, 
As a corse on the sea-shore, 
Whose spirit has fled ! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 99 

On that fatal day, 
The histories say, 
Seventy vessels 
Sailed out of the bay. 

But soon scattered wide 
O'er the billows they ride, 
While Sigvald and Olaf 
Sail side by side. 

Cried the Earl : " Follow me ! 
I your pilot will be, 
For I know all the channels 
Where flows the deep sea ! " 

So into the strait 
Where his foes lie in wait, 
Gallant King Olaf 
Sails to his fate ! 

Then the sea-fog veils 
The ships and their sails ; 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 
Thy vengeance prevails ! 



XIX. 

KING OLAF'S WAR-HORNS. 

" Strike the sails ! " King Olaf said ; 
"Never shall men of miue take flight ; 

Never away from battle I fled, 

Never away from my foes ! 



100 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Let God dispose 
Of my life in the fight I " 

44 Sound the horns ! " said Olaf the King ; 
And suddenly through the drifting brume 
The blare of the horns began to ring, 
Like the terrible trumpet shock 

Of Regnarock, 
On the Day of Doom ! 

Louder and louder the war-horns sang 
Over the level floor of the flood ; 
All the sails came down with a clang, 
And there in the midst overhead 

The sun hung red 
As a drop of blood. 

Drifting down on the Danish fleet 
Three together the ships were lashed, 
So that neither should turn and retreat ; 
In the midst, but in front of the rest, 

The burnished crest 
Of the Serpent flashed. 

King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, 
With bow of ash and arrows of oak, 
His gilded shield was without a fleck, 
His helmet inlaid with gold, 

And in many a fold 
Hung his crimson cloak. 

On the forecastle Ulf the Red 
Watched the lashing of the ships ; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 101 

w If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 
We shall have hard work of it here," 

Said he with a sneer 
On his bearded lips. 

King Olaf laid an arrow on string, 
44 Have I a coward on board ? " said he. 
44 Shoot it another way, O King ! " 

Sullenly answered Ulf, 
The old sea-wolf ; 
44 You have need of me ! " 

In front came Svend, the King of the Danes, 
Sweeping down with his fifty rowers ; 
To the right, the Swedish king with his thanes ; 
And on board of the Iron Beard 

Earl Eric steered 
To the left with his oars. 

" These soft Danes and Swedes," said the King, 
44 At home with their wives had better stay, 
Than come within reach of my Serpent's sting: 
But where Eric the Norseman leads 

Heroic deeds 
Will be done to-day ! " 

Then as together the vessels crashed, 
Eric severed the cables of hide, 
With which King Olaf 's ships were lashed, 
And left them to drive and drift 

With the currents swift 
Of the outward tide. 



102 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, 
Sharper the dragons bite and sting ! 
Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 
A death-drink salt as the sea 

Pledges to thee, 
Olaf the King ! 



XX. 

EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. 

It was Einar Tamberskelver 

Stood beside the mast ; 
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, 

Flew the arrows fast ; 
Aimed at Erie unavailing, 

As he sat concealed, 
Half behind the quarter-railing, 

Half behind his shield. 

First an arrow struck the tiller, 
Just above his head ; 
" Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller," 

Then Earl Eric said. 
" Sing the song of Hakon dying, 
Sing his funeral wail ! " 
And another arrow flying 
Grazed his coat of mail. 

Turning to a Lapland yeoman, 

As the arrow passed, 
Said Earl Eric, " Shoot that bowman 

Standing by the mast." 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 103 

Sooner than the word was spoken 

Flew the yeoman's shaft ; 
Einar's bow in twain was broken, 

Einar only laughed. 

"What was that? " said Olaf, standing 

On the quarter-deck. 
" Something heard I like the stranding 
Of a shattered wreck." 
Einar then, the arrow taking 
From the loosened string, 
Answered, " That was Norway breaking 
From thy hand, O King ! " 

" Thou art but a poor diviner," 

* Straightway Olaf said ; 
" Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, 
Let thy shafts be sped." 
Of his bows the fairest choosing, 

Reached he from above ; 
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing 
Through his iron glove. 

But the bow was thin and narrow ; 

At the first assay, 
O'er its head he drew the arrow, 

Flung the bow away ; 
Said, with hot and angry temper 

Flushing in his cheek, 
" Olaf ! for so great a Kamper 

Are thy bows too weak ! " 

Then, with smile of joy defiant 
On his beardless lip, 



104 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Scaled he, light and self-reliant, 

Eric's dragon-ship. 
Loose his golden locks were flowing, 

Bright his armor gleamed ; 
Like Saint Michael overthrowing 

Lucifer he seemed. 



XXI. 

KING OLAF'S DEATH-DRINK. 

All day has the battle raged, 
All day have the ships engaged, 
But not yet is assuaged 

The vengeance of Eric the Earl. 

The decks with blood are red, 
The arrows of death are sped, 
The ships are filled with the dead, 
And the spears the champions hurl. 

They drift as wrecks on the tide, 
The grappling-irons are plied, 
The boarders climb up the side, 
The shouts are feeble and few. 

Ah ! never shall Norway again 
See her sailors come back o'er the main, 
They all lie wounded or slain, 
Or asleep in the billows blue ! 

On the deck stands Olaf the King, 
Around him whistle and sing 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 105 

The spears that the foemen fling, 

And the stones they hurl with their hands. 

In the midst of the stones and the spears, 
Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, 
His shield in the air he uprears, 

By the side of King Olaf he stands. 

Over the slippery wreck 
Of the Long Serpent's deck 
Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, 
His lips with anger are pale ; 

He hews with his axe at the mast, 
Till it falls, with the sails overcast, 
Like a snow-covered pine in the vast 
Dim forests of Orkadale. 

Seeking King Olaf then, 
He rushes aft with his men, 
As a hunter into the den 

Of the bear, when he stands at bay. 

** Remember Jarl Hakon ! " he cries ; 
When lo ! on his wondering eyes, 
Two kingly figures arise, 
Two Olafs in warlike array! 

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 
Of King Olaf a word of cheer, 
In a whisper that none may hear, 
With a smile on his tremulous lip ; 



106 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Two shields raised high in the air, 
Two flashes of golden hair, 
Two scarlet meteors' glare, 

And both have leaped from the ship. 

Earl Eric's men in the boats 
Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, 
And cry, from their hairy throats, 
" See ! it is Olaf the King ! " 

While far on the opposite side 
Floats another shield on the tide, 
Like a jewel set in the wide 
Sea-current's eddying ring. 

There is told a wonderful tale, 
How the King stripped off his mail, 
Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, 
As he swam beneath the main ; 

But the young grew old and gray, 
And never, by night or by day, 
In his kingdom of Norroway 
Was King Olaf seen again ! 



XXII. 

THE NUN OF NIDAROS. 

In the convent of Drontheim, 
Alone in her chamber 
Knelt Astrid the Abbess, 
At midnight, adoring, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 107 

Beseeching, entreating 
The Virgin and Mother. 

She heard in the silence 
The voice of one speaking, 
Without in the darkness, 
In gusts of the night-wind, 
Now louder, now nearer, 
Now lost in the distance. 

The voice of a stranger 
It seemed as she listened, 
Of some one who answered 
Beseeching, imploring, 
A cry from afar off 
She could not distinguish. 

The voice of Saint John, 
The beloved disciple, 
Who wandered and waited 
The Master's appearance, 
Alone in the darkness, 
Unsheltered and friendless. 

u It is accepted, 
The angry defiance, 
The challenge of battle ! 
It is accepted, 
But not with the weapons 
Of war that thou wieldestl 

" Cross against corselet, 
Love against hatred, 



108 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Peace-cry for war-cry ! 

Patience is powerful ; 

He that o'ercometh 

Hath power o'er the nations t 

" As torrents in summer, 
Half dried in their channels, 
Suddenly rise, though the 
Sky is still cloudless, 
For rain has been falling 
Far off at their fountains ; 

*' So hearts that are fainting 
Grow full to o'erflowing, 
And they that behold it 
Marvel, and know not 
That God at their fountains 
Far off has been raining ! 

** Stronger than steel 
Is the sword of the Spirit ; 
Swifter than arrows 
The light of the truth is, 
Greater than anger 
Is love, and subdueth ! 

** Thou art a phantom, 
A shape of the sea-mist, 
A shape of the brumal 
Eain, and the darkness 
Fearful and formless ; 
Day dawns and thou art not! 



INTERLUDE 109 

" The dawn is not distant, 
Nor is the night starless ; 
Love is eternal ! 
God is still God, and 
His faith shall not fail us ; 
Christ is eternal ! " 



INTERLUDE. 

A STRAIN of music closed the tale, 
A low, monotonous, funeral wail, 
That with its cadence, wild and sweet, 
Made the long Saga more complete. 

" Thank God," the Theologian said, 

" The reign of violence is dead, 
Or dying surely from the world ; 
While Love triumphant reigns instead, 
And in a brighter sky o'erhead 
His blessed banners are unfurled. 
And most of all thank God for this : 
The war and waste of clashing creeds 
Now end in words, and not in deeds, 
And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, 
For thoughts that men call heresies. 

" I stand without here in the porch, 
I hear the bell's melodious din, 
I hear the organ peal within, 
I hear the prayer, with words that scorch 
Like sparks from an inverted torch, 
I hear the sermon upon sin, 
With threatenings of the last account. 



110 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And all, translated in the air, 

Keach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, 

And as the Sermon on the Mount. 

" Must it be Calvin, and not Christ ? 
Must it be Athanasian creeds, 
Or holy water, books, and beads ? 
Must struggling souls remain content 
With councils and decrees of Trent? 
And can it be enough for these 
The Christian Church the year embalms 
With evergreens and boughs of palms, 
And fills the air with litanies ? 

" 1 know that yonder Pharisee 
Thanks God that he is not like me ; 
In my humiliation dressed, 
I only stand and beat my breast, 
And pray for human charity. 

" Not to one church alone, but seven, 
The voice prophetic spake from heaven ; 
And unto each the promise came, 
Diversified, but still the same ; 
For him that overcometh are 
The new name written on the stone, 
The raiment white, the crown, the throne, 
And I will give him the Morning Star ! j 

" Ah ! to how many Faith has been 
No evidence of things unseen, 
But a dim shadow, that recasts 
The creed of the Phantasiasts, 



TORQUEMADA 111 

For whom no Man of Sorrows died, 
For whom the Tragedy Divine 
Was but a symbol and a sign, 
And Christ a phantom crucified ! 

" For others a diviner creed 
Is living in the life they lead. 
The passing of their beautiful feet 
Blesses the pavement of the street, 
And all their looks and words repeat 
Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, 
Not as a vulture, but a dove, 
The Holy Ghost came from above. 

" And this brings back to me a tale 
So sad the hearer well may quail, 
And question if such things can be ; 
Yet in the chronicles of Spain 
Down the dark pages runs this stain, 
And naught can wash them white again, 
So fearful is the tragedy." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

TORQUEMADA. 

"November 29, 1862. At work on a tale called Torquemada 
for the Sudbury Tales." 

" December 5 [at midnight]. Finished Torquemada, — a 
dismal story of fanaticism ; but in its main points historic. See 
De Castro, Protestantes Espanolas, page 310." 

In the heroic days when Ferdinand 
And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, 



112 TALES OF A WA YS1DE INN 

And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, 

Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 

In a great castle near Valladolid, 

Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid, 

There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn, 

An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn, 

Whose name has perished, with his towers of 

stone, 
And all his actions save this one alone ; 
This one, so terrible, perhaps 't were best 
If it, too, were forgotten with the rest ; 
Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein 
The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin ; 
A double picture, with its gloom and glow, 
The splendor overhead, the death below. 

This sombre man counted each day as lost 
On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed ; 
And when he chanced the passing Host to meet, 
He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street ; 
Oft he confessed ; and with each mutinous thought, 
As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. 
In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent, 
Walked in processions, with his head down bent, 
At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, 
And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green. 
His sole diversion was to hunt the boar 
Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar, 
Or with his jingling mules to hurry down 
To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring town, 
Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, 
When Jews were burned, or banished from the 
land. 



TORQUEMADA 113 

Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy ; 
The demon whose delight is to destroy 
Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, 
" Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out his own ! " 

And now, in that old castle in the wood, 
His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood, 
Keturning from their convent school, had made 
Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade, 
Reminding him of their dead mother's face, 
When first she came into that gloomy place, — ■ 
A memory in his heart as dim and sweet 
As moonlight in a solitary street, 
Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown 
Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. 
These two fair daughters of a mother dead 
Were all the dream had left him as it fled. 
A joy at first, and then a growing care, 
As if a voice within him cried, " Beware ! " 
A vague presentiment of impending doom, 
Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, 
Haunted him day and night ; a formless fear 
That death to some one of his house was near, 
With dark surmises of a hidden crime, 
Made life itself a death before its time. 
Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame, 
A spy upon his daughters he became ; 
With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors, 
He glided softly through half -open doors ; 
Now in the room, and now upon the stair, 
He stood beside them ere they were aware ; 
He listened in the passage when they talked, 
He watched them from the casement when they 
walked, 



114 7 ALES 0$ A WAYSIDE INN 

He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side, 

He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide ; 

And, tortured by the mystery and the doubt 

Of some dark secret, past his finding out, 

Baffled he paused ; then reassured again 

Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. 

He watched them even when they knelt in church; 

And then, descending lower in his search, 

Questioned the servants, and with eager eyes 

Listened incredulous to their replies ; 

The gypsy ? none had seen her in the wood ! 

The monk ? a mendicant in search of food ! 

At length the awful revelation came, 
Crushing at once his pride of birth and name ; 
The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast 
And the ancestral glories of the past, 
All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, 
A turret rent from battlement to base. 
His daughters talking in the dead of night 
In their own chamber, and without a light, 
Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, 
And learned the dreadful secret, word by word ; 
And hurrying from his castle, with a cry 
He raised his hands to the unpitying sky, 
Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree 
Caught it, and shuddering answered, " Heresy ! " 

Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o'er his face s 
Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace, 
He walked all night the alleys of his park, 
With one unseen companion in the dark, 
The Demon who within him lay in wait 



TORQUEMADA 115 

And by his presence turned his love to hate, 

Forever muttering in an undertone, 

" Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out his own I " 

Upon the morrow, after early Mass, 
While yet the dew was glistening on the grass, 
And all the woods were musical with birds, 
The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, 
Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his 

room 
Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom. 
When questioned, with brief answers they replied, 
Nor when accused evaded or denied ; 
Expostulations, passionate appeals, 
All that the human heart most fears or feels, 
In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed ; 
In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed ; 
Until at last he said, with haughty mien, 
" The Holy Office, then, must intervene ! " 

And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 
With all the fifty horsemen of his train, 
His awful name resounding, like the blast 
Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, 
Came to Valladolid, and there began 
To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. 
To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate 
Demanded audience on affairs of state, 
And in a secret chamber stood before 
A venerable graybeard of fourscore, 
Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar ; 
Put of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, 
And in his hand the mystic horn he held, 



116 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. 

He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale, 

Then answered in a voice that made him quail : 

" Son of the Church ! when Abraham of old 

To sacrifice his only son was told, 

He did not pause to parley nor protest, 

But hastened to obey the Lord's behest. 

In him it was accounted righteousness ; 

The Holy Church expects of thee no less ! " 

A sacred frenzy seized the father's brain, 
And Mercy from that hour implored in vain. 
Ah ! who will e'er believe the words I say ? 
His daughters he accused, and the same day 
They both were cast into the dungeon's gloom, 
That dismal antechamber of the tomb, 
Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame, 
The secret torture and the public shame. 

Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more 
The Hidalgo went more eager than before, 
And said : " When Abraham offered up his son, 
He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. 
By his example taught, let me too bring 
Wood from the forest for my offering ! " 
And the deep voice, without a pause, replied : 
" Son of the Church ! by faith now justified, 
Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt ; 
The Church absolves thy conscience from all 
guilt!" 

Then this most wretched father went his way 
Into the woods, that round his castle lay, 



TORQUEMADA 117 

Where once his daughters in their childhood played 

With their young mother in the sun and shade. 

Now all the leaves had fallen ; the branches bare 

Made a perpetual moaning in the air, 

And screaming from their eyries overhead 

The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. 

With his own hands he lopped the boughs and 

bound 
Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound, 
And on his mules, caparisoned and gay 
With bells and tassels, sent them on their way. 

Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, 

Again to the Inquisitor he went, 

And said : " Behold, the fagots I have brought, 

And now, lest my atonement be as naught. 

Grant me one more request, one last desire, — 

With my own hand to light the funeral fire ! " 

And Torquemada answered from his seat, 

" Son of the Church ! Thine offering is complete ; 

Her servants through all ages shall not cease 

To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace ! " 

Upon the market-place, builded of stone 

The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his own. 

At the four corners, in stern attitude, 

Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood, 

Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes 

Upon this place of human sacrifice, 

Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd, 

With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, 

And every roof and window was alive 

With restless gazers, swarming like a hive. 



118 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew 

near, 
Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of fear, 
A line of torches smoked along the street, 
There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, 
And, with its banners floating in the air, 
Slowly the long procession crossed the square, 
And, to the statues of the Prophets bound, 
The victims stood, with fagots piled around. 
Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, 
And louder sang the monks with bell and book, 
And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, 
Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, 
Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, 
Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead ! 

O pitiless skies ! why did your clouds retain 
For peasants' fields their floods of hoarded rain ? 
O pitiless earth ! why open no abyss 
To bury in its chasm a crime like this ? 

That night, a mingled column of fire and smoke 
From the dark thickets of the forest broke, 
And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues away, 
Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day. 
Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed, 
And as the villagers in terror gazed, 
They saw the figure of that cruel knight 
Lean from a window in the turret's height, 
His ghastly face illumined with the glare, 
His hands upraised above his head in prayer, 
Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell 
Pown the black hollow of that burning well. 



INTERLUDE 119 

Three centuries and more above his bones 
Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones ; 
His name has perished with him, and no trace 
Kemains on earth of his afflicted race ; 
But Torquemada's name, with clouds o'ercast, 
Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, 
Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath, 
Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath ! 

INTERLUDE. 

Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 

That cast upon each listener's face 

Its shadow, and for some brief space 

Unbroken silence filled the room. 

The Jew was thoughtful and distressed ; 

Upon his memory thronged and pressed 

The persecution of his race, 

Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace ; 

His head was sunk upon his breast, 

And from his eyes alternate came 

Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. 

The Student first the silence broke, 
As one who long has lain in wait, 
With purpose to retaliate, 
And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. 
64 In such a company as this, 
A tale so tragic seems amiss, 
That by its terrible control 
O'ermasters and drags down the soul 
Into a fathomless abyss. 
The Italian Tales that you disdain, 



120 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Some merry Night of Straparole, 
Or Machiavelli's Belphagor, 
Would cheer us and delight us more, 
Give greater pleasure and less pain 
Than your grim tragedies of Spain ! " 

And here the Poet raised his hand, 
With such entreaty and command, 
It stopped discussion at its birth, 
And said : " The story I shall tell 
Has meaning in it, if not mirth ; 
Listen, and hear what once befell 
The merry birds of Killingworth ! " 



THE POET'S TALE. 

THE BIRDS QF KILLINGWORTH 
Published in The Atlantic Monthly, December, 1863. 

It was the season, when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 

Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 

Whom Saxon Csedmon calls the Blithe-heart 
King; 

When on the boughs the purple buds expand, 
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, 

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, 

And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, 

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their 
glee; 



THE BIRDS OF KILL1NGW0RTH 121 

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be ; 

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, 
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said : 

" Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread ! " 

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, 
Speaking some unknown language strange and 
sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 

The village with the cheers of all their fleet ; 

Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise 

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; 

And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, 
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; 

They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful 
words 

To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 

Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 
Levied black-mail upon the garden beds 

A^nd cornfields, and beheld without dismay 
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds ; 



122 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The skeleton that waited at their feast, 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red, 

The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 

Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, as one who 
said, 

" A town that boasts inhabitants like me 

Can have no lack of good society ! " 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to year, 
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will ; 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; 

E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of brass, 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 
Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class, 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, 

As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his door, 
In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow ; 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 123 

A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; 

His form was ponderous, and his step was slow ; 
There never was so wise a man before ; 

He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you so ! " 
And to perpetuate his great renown 
There was a street named after him in town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from the region round. 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 

His air impressive and his reasoning sound ; 

111 fared it with the birds, both great and small ; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, 

But enemies enough, who every one 

Charged them with all the crimes beneath the 
sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, 

And, trembling like a steed before the start, 
Looked round bewildered on the expectant 
throng ; 

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart 
To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, 

Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 

And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

" Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 

From his Republic banished without pity 

The Poets ; in this little town of yours, 

You put to death, by means of a Committee, 

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 
The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 



124 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The birds, who make sweet music for us all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

" The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 

The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 

" You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 

Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 

As are the songs these uninvited guests 

Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

" Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who 
taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys, 

Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 

u Think, every morning when the sun peepa 
through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 125 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 

And when you think of this, remember too 
'T is always morning somewhere, and above 

The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 

Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 

"Think of your woods and orchards without 
birds ! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 
Will blea/t of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? 

" What ! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay, 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, 

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 

Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? 

" You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know, 
They are the winged wardens of your farms, 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms j 

Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 
Renders good service as your man-at-arms, 

Line 20. Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, 



126 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 
And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

" How can I teach your children gentleness, 
And mercy to the weak, and revjexeuc^-v/* 

For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, 

Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less 
The selfsame light, although averted hence, 

When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, 

You contradict the very things I teach? " 

With this he closed; and through the audience 
went 
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves ; 
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some 
bent 
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 
The birds were doomed; and, as the record 

shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, 

But in the papers read his little speech, 
And crowned his modest temples with applause ; 

They made him conscious, each one more than 
each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. 

Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, 

fair Almira at the Academy ! 



TEE BIRDS OF K1LLINGW0RTH 127 

A.nd so the dreadful massacre began ; 
O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland 
crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their 
breasts, 
Or wounded crept away from sight of man, 

While the young died of famine in their 
nests ; 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, 
The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead ; 

The days were like hot coals ; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, 
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 

Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun 
down 
The canker-worms upon the passers-by, 

Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, 
Who shook them off with just a little cry ; 

They were the terror of each favorite walk, 

The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 

Confessed their error, and would not complain, 



128 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

For after all, the best thing one can do 

When it is raining, is to let it rain. 
Then they repealed the law, although they knew 

It would not call the dead to life again ; 
As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, 
Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 
Without the light of his majestic look, 

The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 
The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their 
shame, 
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, 

While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, 

Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was sung, 

As great a wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! 

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, 

All full of singing birds, came down the street, 

Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 

From all the country round these birds were 
brought, 

By order of the town, with anxious quest, 
And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought 

In woods and fields the places they loved best, 
Singing loud canticles, which many thought 

Were satires to the authorities addressed, 



FINALE 129 

While others, listening in green lanes, averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard ! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, 
And everywhere, around, above, below, 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 



FINALE. 

The hour was late ; the fire burned low, 
The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, 
And near the story's end a deep 
Sonorous sound at times was heard, 
As when the distant bagpipes blow. 
At this all laughed ; the Landlord stirred, 
As one awaking from a swound, 
And, gazing anxiously around, 
Protested that he had not slept, 
But only shut his eyes, and kept 
His ears attentive to each word. 

Then all arose, and said " Good Night." 
Alone remained the drowsy Squire 
To rake the embers of the fire, 
And quench the waning parlor light ; 
While from the windows, here and there, 
The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, 
And the illumined hostel seemed 



130 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The constellation of the Bear, 
Downward, athwart the misty air, 
Sinking and setting toward the sun. 
Far off the village clock struck one. 



PART SECOND 

PRELUDE. 

A COLD, uninterrupted rain, 

That washed each southern window-pane, 

And made a river of the road ; 

A sea of mist that overflowed 

The house, the barns, the gilded vane, 

And drowned the upland and the plain, 

Through which the oak-trees, broad and high, 

Like phantom ships went drifting by ; 

And, hidden behind a watery screen, 

The sun unseen, or only seen 

As a faint pallor in the sky ; — 

Thus cold and colorless and gray, 

The morn of that autumnal day, 

As if reluctant to begin, 

Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn, 

And all the guests that in it lay. 

Full late they slept. They did not hear 
The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, 
Who on the empty threshing-floor, 
Disdainful of the rain outside, 
Was strutting with a martial stride, 
As if upon his thigh he wore 
The famous broadsword of the Squire, 
And said, " Behold me, and admire I " 



132 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Only the Poet seemed to hear, 

In drowse or dream, more near and near 

Across the border-land of sleep 

The blowing of a blithesome horn, 

That laughed the dismal day to scorn ; 

A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels 

Through sand and mire like stranding keels, 

As from the road with sudden sweep 

The Mail drove up the little steep, 

And stopped beside the tavern door ; 

A moment stopped, and then again 

With crack of whip and bark of dog 

Plunged forward through the sea of fog, 

And all was silent as before, — 

All silent save the dripping rain. 

Then one by one the guests came down, 
And greeted with a smile the Squire, 
Who sat before the parlor fire, 
Beading the paper fresh from town. 
First the Sicilian, like a bird, 
Before his form appeared, was heard 
Whistling and singing down the stair ; 
Then came the Student, with a look 
As placid as a meadow-brook ; 
The Theologian, still perplexed 
With thoughts of this world and the next 5 
The Poet then, as one who seems 
Walking in visions and in dreams ; 
Then the Musician, like a fair 
Hyperion from whose golden hair 
The radiance of the morning streams i 
And last the aromatic Jew 
Of Alicant, who, as he threw 



PRELUDE 133 

The door wide open, on the air 
Breathed round about him a perfume 
Of damask roses in full bloom, 
Making a garden of the room. 

The breakfast ended, each pursued 
The promptings of his various mood 5 
Beside the fire in silence smoked 
The taciturn, impassive Jew, 
Lost in a pleasant revery ; 
While, by his gravity provoked, 
His portrait the Sicilian drew, 
And wrote beneath it " Edrehi, 
At the Eed Horse in Sudbury.'' 

By far the busiest of them all, 

The Theologian in the hall 

"Was feeding robins in a cage, — 

Two corpulent and lazy birds, 

Vagrants and pilferers at best, 

If one might trust the hostler's words, 

Chief instrument of their arrest ; 

Two poets of the Golden Age, 

Heirs of a boundless heritage 

Of fields and orchards, east and west, 

And sunshine of long summer days, 

Though outlawed now and dispossessed ! — • 

Such was the Theologian's phrase. 

Meanwhile the Student held discourse 
With the Musician, on the source 
Of all the legendary lore 
Among the nations, scattered wide 
Like silt and seaweed by the force 



134 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And fluctuation of the tide ; 

The tale repeated o'er and o'er, 

With change of place and change of name, 

Disguised, transformed, and yet the same 

We 've heard a hundred times before. 

The Poet at the window mused, 
And saw, as in a dream confused, 
The countenance of the Sun, discrowned, 
And haggard with a pale despair, 
And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift 
Before it, and the trees uplift 
Their leafless branches, and the air 
Filled with the arrows of the rain, 
And heard amid the mist below, 
Like voices of distress and pain, 
That haunt the thoughts of men insane, 
The fateful cawings of the crow. 

Then down the road, with mud besprent, 
And drenched with rain from head to hoof, 
The rain-drops dripping from his mane 
And tail as from a pent-house roof, 
A jaded horse, his head down bent, 
Passed slowly, limping as he went. 

The young Sicilian — who had grown 
Impatient longer to abide 
A prisoner, greatly mortified 
To see completely overthrown 
His plans for angling in the brook, 
And, leaning o'er the bridge of stone, 
To watch the speckled trout glide by, 



THE BELL OF ATRI 135 

Ajid float through the inverted sky, 
Still round and round the baited hook — 
Now paced the room with rapid stride, 
And, pausing at the Poet's side, 
Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed, 
And said : " Alas for human greed, 
That with cold hand and stony eye 
Thus turns an old friend out to die, 
Or beg his food from gate to gate ! 
This brings a tale into my mind, 
Which, if you are not disinclined 
To listen, I will now relate." 

All gave assent ; all wished to hear, 
Not without many a jest and jeer, 
The story of a spavined steed ; 
And even the Student with the rest 
Put in his pleasant little jest 
Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus 
Is but a horse that with all speed 
Bears poets to the hospital ; 
"While the Sicilian, self-possessed, 
After a moment's interval 
Began his simple story thus. 

THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

THE BELL OF ATRI. 

"January 31, 1870. In the evening- began a story in verse, 
The Bell of Atri, for a second day of The Wayside Inn.' } 

At Atri in Abrazzo, a small town 

Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, 



136 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

One of those little places that have run 

Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, 

And then sat down to rest, as if to say, 

" I climb no farther upward, come what may," — 

The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, 

So many monarchs since have borne the name, 

Had a great bell hung in the market-place, 

Beneath a roof, projecting some small space 

By way of shelter from the sun and rain. 

Then rode he through the streets with all his train- 

And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, 

Made proclamation, that whenever wrong 

Was done to any man, he should but ring 

The great bell in the square, and he, the King, 

Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. 

Such was the proclamation of King John. 

How swift the happy days in Atri sped, 
What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. 
Suffice it that, as all things must decay, 
The hempen rope at length was worn away, 
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, 
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, 
Till one, who noted this in passing by, 
Mended the rope with braids of briony, 
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine 
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. 

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt 
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, 
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, 
Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, 
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports 



THE BELL OF ATRI 137 

And prodigalities of camps and courts ; — 
Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old, 
His only passion was the love of gold. 

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, 
Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, 
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, 
To starve and shiver in a naked stall, 
And day by day sat brooding in his chair, 
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. 

At length he said : " What is the use or need 
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, 
Eating his head off in my stables here, 
When rents are low and provender is dear? 
Let him go feed upon the public ways ; 
I want him only for the holidays." 
So the old steed was turned into the heat 
Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street ; 
And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, 
Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. 

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime 

It is the custom in the summer time, 

With bolted doors and window- shutters closed, 

The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ; 

When suddenly upon their senses fell 

The loud alarm of the accusing bell ! 

The Syndic started from his deep repose, 

Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose 

And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace 

Went panting forth into the market-place, 

Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung, 



138 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Keiterating with persistent tongue, 
In half -articulate jargon, the old song : 
"Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a 
wrong ! " 

But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade 
He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, 
No shape of human form of woman born, 
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, 
Who with uplifted head and eager eye 
Was tugging at the vines of briony. 
" Domeneddio ! " cried the Syndic straight, 
" This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state ! 
He calls for justice, being sore distressed, 
And pleads his cause as loudly as the best." 

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd 

Had rolled together like a summer cloud, 

And told the story of the wretched beast 

In five-and-twenty different ways at least, 

With much gesticulation and appeal 

To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. 

The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply 

Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; 

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, 

And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, 

Maintaining, in an angry undertone, 

That he should do what pleased him with his oWH. 

And thereupon the Syndic gravely read 
The proclamation of the King ; then said : 
" Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, 
But cometh back on foot, and begs its way ; 



INTERLUDE 139 

Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, 
Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds ! 
These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear 
They never yet have reached your knightly ear. 
What fair renown, what honor, what repute 
Can come to you from starving this poor brute ? 
He who serves well and speaks not, merits more 
Than they who clamor loudest at the door. 
Therefore the law decrees that as this steed 
Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take 

heed 
To comfort his old age, and to provide 
Shelter in stall, and food and field beside." 

The Knight withdrew abashed ; the people all 
Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. 
The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, 
And cried aloud : " Eight well it pleaseth me ! 
Church-bells at best but ring us to the door ; 
But go not in to mass ; my bell doth more : 
It cometh into court and pleads the cause 
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws ; 
And this shall make, in every Christian clime, 
The Bell of Atri famous for all time." 



INTERLUDE. 

" Yes, well your story pleads the cause 
Of those dumb mouths that have no speech, 
Only a cry from each to each 
In its own kind, with its own laws ; 
Something that is beyond the reach 
Of human power to learn or teach, — 



140 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

An inarticulate moan of pain, 
Like the immeasurable main 
Breaking upon an unknown beach," 

Thus spake the Poet with a sigh ; 
Then added, with impassioned cry, 
As one who feels the words he speaks, 
The color flushing in his cheeks, 
The fervor burning in his eye : 
" Among the noblest in the land, 
Though he may count himself the least, 
That man I honor and revere 
Who without favor, without fear, 
In the great city dares to stand 
The friend of every friendless beast, 
And tames with his unflinching hand 
The brutes that wear our form and face, 
The were-wolves of the human race ! " 
Then paused, and waited with a frown, 
Like some old champion of romance, 
Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, 
Expectant leans upon his lance ; 
But neither Knight nor Squire is found 
To raise the gauntlet from the ground, 
And try with him the battle's chance. 

" Wake from your dreams, O Edrehi ! 
Or dreaming speak to us, and make 
A feint of being half awake, 
And tell us what your dreams may be. 
Out of the hazy atmosphere 
Of cloud-land deign to reappear 
Among us in this Wayside Inn ; 



KAMBALU 141 

Tell us what visions and what scenes 

Illuminate the dark ravines 

In which you grope your way. Begin ! n 

Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew 
Made no reply, but only smiled, 
As men unto a wayward child, 
Not knowing what to answer, do. 
As from a cavern's mouth, o'ergrown 
With moss and intertangled vines, 
A streamlet leaps into the light 
And murmurs over root and stone 
In a melodious undertone ; 
Or as amid the noonday night 
Of sombre and wind-haunted pines 
There runs a sound as of the sea ; 
So from his bearded lips there came 
A melody without a name, 
A song, a tale, a history, 
Or whatsoever it may be, 
Writ and recorded in these lines. 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 

KAMBALTT. 
Begun January 26, 1864. Finished February 12, 1864. 

Into the city of Kambalu, 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, 
At the head of his dusty caravan, 
Laden with treasure from realms afar, 
Baldacca and Kelat aod Kandahar, 
Rode the great captain Alau. 



142 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The Khan from his palace-window gazed, 
And saw in the thronging street beneath, 
In the light of the setting sun, that blazed 
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised, 
The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, 
t*And the shining scimitars of the guard, 
.And the weary camels that bared their teeth, 
As they passed and passed through the gates un* 

barred 
Into the shade of the palace-yard. 

Thus into the city of Kambalu 

Rode the great captain Alau ; 

And he stood before the Khan, and said : 

" The enemies of my lord are dead ; 

All the Kalif s of all the West 

Bow and obey thy least behest ; 

The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees, 

The weavers are busy in Samarcand, 

The miners are sifting the golden sand, 

The divers plunging for pearls in the seas, 

And peace and plenty are in the land. 

" Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone, 

Rose in revolt against thy throne : 

His treasures are at thy palace-door, 

With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he 

wore ; 
His body is dust o'er the desert blown. 

" A mile outside of Baldacca's gate 

I left my forces to lie in wait, 

Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand, 



KAMBALU 143 

And forward dashed with a handful of men, 

To lure the old tiger from his den 

Into the ambush I had planned. 

Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread, 

For we heard the sound of gongs from within ; 

And with clash of cymbals and warlike din 

The gates swung wide ; and we turned and fled ; 

And the garrison sallied forth and pursued, 

With the gray old Kalif at their head, 

And above them the banner of Mohammed : 

So we snared them all, and the town was subdued. 

" As in at the gate we rode, behold, 

A tower that is called the Tower of Gold ! 

For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, 

Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, 

Like sacks of wheat in a granary ; 

And thither the miser crept by stealth 

To feel of the gold that gave him health, 

And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye 

On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm's spark, 

Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. 

" I said to the Kalif : ' Thou art old, 

Thou hast no need of so much gold. 

Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here, 

Till the breath of battle was hot and near, 

But have sown through the land these useless 

hoards 
Yo spring into shining blades of swords, 
And keep thine honor sweet and clear. 
These grains of gold are not grains of wheat ; 
These bars of silver thou canst not eat ; 



144 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

These jewels and pearls and precious stones 
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, 
Nor keep the feet of Death one hour 
From climbing the stairways of thy tower ! ' 

" Then into his dungeon I locked the drone, 
And left him to feed there all alone 
In the honey-cells of his golden hive ; 
Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan 
Was heard from those massive walls of stone, 
Nor again was the Kalif seen alive ! 

" When at last we unlocked the door, 

We found him dead upon the floor ; 

The rings had dropped from his withered hands, 

His teeth were like bones in the desert sands : 

Still clutching his treasure he had died s 

And as he lay there, he appeared 

A statue of gold with a silver beard, 

His arms outstretched as if crucified." 

This is the story, strange and true, 
That the great captain Alau 
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, 
When he rode that day into Kambalu 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. 



INTERLUDE. 

" I thought before your tale began," 
The Student murmured, " we should have 
Some legend written by Judah Rav 
In his Gemara of Babylon ; 



THE COBBLER OF HA GEN A U 145 

Or something from the Gulistan, — 
The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, 
Or of that King of Khorasan 
Who saw in dreams the eyes of one 
That had a hundred years been dead 
Still moving restless in his head, 
Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust 
Of power, though all the rest was dust, 

M But lo ! your glittering caravan 
On the road that leadeth to Ispahan 
Hath led us farther to the East 
Into the regions of Cathay. 
Spite of your Kalif and his gold, 
Pleasant has been the tale you told, 
And full of color ; that at least 
No one will question or gainsay. 
And yet on such a dismal day 
We need a merrier tale to clear 
The dark and heavy atmosphere. 
So listen, Lordlings, while I tell, 
Without a preface, what befell 
A simple cobbler, in the year — 
No matter ; it was long ago ; 
And that is all we need to know." 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU. 

I trust that somewhere and somehow 
You all have heard of Hagenau, 
A quiet, quaint, and ancient town 



146 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Among the green Alsatian hills, 
A place of valleys, streams, and mills, 
Where Barbarossa's castle, brown 
With rust of centuries, still looks down 
On the broad, drowsy land below, — 
On shadowy forests filled with game, 
And the blue river winding slow 
Through meadows, where the hedges grow 
That give this little town its name. 

It happened in the good old times, 
While yet the Master-singers filled 
The noisy workshop and the guild 
With various melodies and rhymes, 
That here in Hagenau there dwelt 
A cobbler, — one who loved debate, 
And, arguing from a postulate, 
Would say what others only felt; 
A man of forecast and of thrift, 
And of a shrewd and careful mind 
In this world's business, but inclined 
Somewhat to let the next world drift, 

Hans Sachs with vast delight he read, 
And Kegenbogen's rhymes of love, 
For their poetic fame had spread 
Even to the town of Hagenau ; 
And some Quick Melody of the Plough, 
Or Double Harmony of the Dove 
Was always running in his head. 
He kept, moreover, at his side, 
Among his leathers and his tools, 
Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools, 



THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU 147 

Or Eulenspiegel, open wide ; 

With these he was much edified : 

He thought them wiser than the Schools. 

His good wife, full of godly fear, 

Liked not these worldly themes to hear ; 

The Psalter was her book of songs ; 

The only music to her ear 

Was that which to the Church belongs, 

When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, 

And the two angels carved in wood, 

That by the windy organ stood, 

Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, 

And all the echoes, far and near, 

Gibbered as if the church were hauntecL 

Outside his door, one afternoon, 
This humble votary of the muse 
Sat in the narrow strip of shade 
By a projecting cornice made, 
Mending the Burgomaster's shoes, 
And singing a familiar tune : — 

" Our ingress into the world 

Was naked and bare ; 
Our progress through the world 

Is trouble and care ; 
Our egress from the world 

Will be nobody knows where : 
But if we do well here 

We shall do well there ; 
And I could tell you no more, 

Should I preach a whole year ! " 



148 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Thus sang the cobbler at his work ; 
And with his gestures marked the time, 
Closing together with a jerk 
Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme. 

Meanwhile his quiet little dame 

Was leaning o'er the window-sill, 

Eager, excited, but mouse-still, 

Gazing impatiently to see 

What the great throng of folk might be 

That onward in procession came, 

Along the unfrequented street, 

With horns that blew, and drums that beat, 

And banners flying, and the flame 

Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet 

Voices of nuns ; and as they sang 

Suddenly all the church-bells rang. 

In a gay coach, above the crowd, 
There sat a monk in ample hood, 
Who with his right hand held aloft 
A red and ponderous cross of wood, 
To which at times he meekly bowed. 
In front three horsemen rode, and oft, 
With voice and air importunate, 
A boisterous herald cried aloud : 
" The grace of God is at your gate ! " 
So onward to the church they passed. 

The cobbler slowly turned his last, 
And, wagging his sagacious head, 
Unto his kneeling housewife said : 
" 'T is the monk Tetzel. I have heard 



THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU 149 

The cawings of that reverend bird. 
Don't let him cheat you of your gold ; 
Indulgence i6 not bought and sold." 

The church of Hagenau, that night, 

Was full of people, full of light ; 

An odor of incense filled the air, 

The priest intoned, the organ groaned 

Its inarticulate despair ; 

The candles on the altar blazed, 

And full in front of it upraised 

The red cross stood against the glare. 

Below, upon the altar-rail 

Indulgences were set to sale, 

Like ballads at a country fair. 

A heavy strong-box, iron-bound 

And carved with many a quaint device, 

Received, with a melodious sound, 

The coin that purchased Paradise. 

Then from the pulpit overhead, 

Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow, 

Thundered upon the crowd below. 
" Good people all, draw near ! " he said ; 
" Purchase these letters, signed and sealed, 

By which all sins, though unrevealed 

And unrepented, are forgiven ! 

Count but the gain, count not the loss I 

Your gold and silver are but dross, 

And yet they pave the way to heaven. 

I hear your mothers and your sires 

Cry from their purgatorial fires, 

And will ye not their ransom pay ? 



150 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

senseless people ! when the gate 
Of heaven is open, will ye wait ? 
Will ye not enter in to-day ? 
To-morrow it will be too late ; 

1 shall be gone upon my way. 

Make haste ! bring money while ye may ! n 

The women shuddered, and turned pale ; 

Allured by hope or driven by fear, 

With many a sob and many a tear, 

All crowded to the altar-rail. 

Pieces of silver and of gold 

Into the tinkling strong-box fell 

Like pebbles dropped into a well ; 

And soon the ballads were all sold. 

The cobbler's wife among the rest 

Slipped into the capacious chest 

A golden florin ; then withdrew, 

Hiding the paper in her breast ; 

And homeward through the darkness went 

Comforted, quieted, content ; 

She did not walk, she rather flew, 

A dove that settles to her nest, 

When some appalling bird of prey 

That scared her has been driven away. 

The days went by, the monk was gone, 
The summer passed, the winter came ; 
Though seasons changed, yet still the same 
The daily round of life went on ; 
The daily round of household care, 
The narrow life of toil and prayer. 
But in her heart the cobbler's dame 



THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU 151 

Had now a treasure beyond price, 

A secret joy without a name, 

The certainty of Paradise. 

Alas, alas ! Dust unto dust ! 

Before the winter wore away, 

Her body in the churchyard lay, 

Her patient soul was with the Just ! 

After her death, among the things 

That even the poor preserve with care, — 

Some little trinkets and cheap rings, 

A locket with her mother's hair, 

Her wedding gown, the faded flowers 

She wore upon her wedding day, — 

Among these memories of past hours, 

That so much of the heart reveal, 

Carefully kept and put away, 

The Letter of Indulgence lay 

Folded, with signature and seal. 

Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained, 

Waited and wondered that no word 

Of mass or requiem he heard, 

As by the Holy Church ordained : 

Then to the Magistrate complained, 

That as this woman had been dead 

A week or more, and no mass said, 

It was rank heresy, or at least 

Contempt of Church ; thus said the Priest ; 

And straight the cobbler was arraigned. 

He came, confiding in his cause, 
But rather doubtful of the laws. 
The Justice from his elbow-chair 



152 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Gave him a look that seemed to say : 

" Thou standest before a Magistrate, 
Therefore do not prevaricate ! " 
Then asked him in a business way, 
Kindly but cold : " Is thy wife dead ? " 
The cobbler meekly bowed his head ; 

" She is," came struggling from his throat 
Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote 
The words down in a book, and then 
Continued, as he raised his pen ; 

" She is ; and hath a mass been said 
For the salvation of her soul ? 
Come, speak the truth ! confess the whole ! 
The cobbler without pause replied : 

" Of mass or prayer there was no need ; 
For at the moment when she died 
Her soul was with the glorified ! " 
And from his pocket with all speed 
He drew the priestly title-deed, 
And prayed the Justice he would read. 

The Justice read, amused, amazed ; 
And as he read his mirth increased ; 
At times his shaggy brows he raised, 
Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, 
Now archly at the angry Priest. 
" From all excesses, sins, and crimes 
Thou hast committed in past times 
Thee I absolve ! And furthermore, 
Purified from all earthly taints, 
To the communion of the Saints 
And to the sacraments restore ! 
All stains of weakness, and all trace 



INTERLUDE 153 

Of shame and censure I efface ; 
Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, 
And make thee innocent and pure, 
So that in dying, unto thee 
The gates of heaven shall open be ! 
Though long thou livest, yet this grace 
Until the moment of thy death 
Unchangeable continueth ! " 

Then said he to the Priest : " I find 
This document is duly signed 
Brother John Tetzel, his own hand. 
At all tribunals in the land 
In evidence it may be used ; 
Therefore acquitted is the accused." 
Then to the cobbler turned : " My friend, 
Pray tell me, didst thou ever read 
Reynard the Fox ? " — " Oh yes, indeed ! " — 
" I thought so. Don't forget the end." 



INTERLUDE. 

" What was the end ? I am ashamed 
Not to remember Reynard's fate ; 
I have not read the book of late ; 
Was he not hanged ? " the Poet said. 
The Student gravely shook his head, 
And answered : " You exaggerate. 
There was a tournament proclaimed, 
And Reynard fought with Isegrim 
The Wolf, and having vanquished him, 
Rose to high honor in the State, 
And Keeper of the Seals was named I " 



154 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

At this the gay Sicilian laughed : 
** Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft ; 

Successful cunning seems to be 

The moral of your tale," said he. 
" Mine had a better, and the Jew's 

Had none at all, that I could see ; 

His aim was only to amuse." 

Meanwhile from out its ebon case 
His violin the Minstrel drew, 
And having tuned its strings anew, 
Now held it close in his embrace, 
And poising in his outstretched hand 
The bow, like a magician's wand, 
He paused, and said, with beaming face : 
M Last night my story was too long ; 
To-day I give you but a song, 
An old tradition of the North ; 
But first, to put you in the mood, 
I will a little while prelude, 
And from this instrument draw forth 
Something by way of overture." 

He played ; at first the tones were pure 

And tender as a summer night, 

The full moon climbing to her height, 

The sob and ripple of the seas, 

The flapping of an idle sail ; 

And then by sudden and sharp degrees 

The multiplied, wild harmonies 

Freshened and burst into a gale ; 

A tempest howling through the dark, 

A crash as of some shipwrecked bark, 

A loud and melancholy wail. 



THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN 155 

Such was the prelude to the tale 
Told by the Minstrel ; and at times 
He paused amid its varying rhymes, 
And at each pause again broke in 
The music of his violin, 
With tones of sweetness or of fear, 
Movements of trouble or of calm, 
Creating their own atmosphere ; 
As sitting in a church we hear 
Between the verses of the psalm 
The organ playing soft and clear, 
Or thundering on the startled ear. 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 

THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. 

"June 10, 1871. Finished Carmilhan [begun on the 7th]. 
Only two more stories are wanted to complete the Second Day 
of the Wayside Inn." 



At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 

Within the sandy bar, 
At sunset of a summer's day, 
Ready for sea, at anchor lay 

The good ship Valdemar. 

The sunbeams danced upon the waves, 

And played along her side ; 
And through the cabin windows streamed 
In ripples of golden light, that seemed 

The ripple of the tide. 



156 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

There sat the captain with his friends, 

Old skippers brown and hale, 
Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog, 
And talked of iceberg and of fog, 
Of calm and storm and gale. 

And one was spinning a sailor's yarn 

About Klaboterman, 
The Kobold of the sea ; a spright 
Invisible to mortal sight, 

Who o'er the rigging ran. 

Sometimes he hammered in the hold, 

Sometimes upon the mast, 
Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft, 
Or at the bows he sang and laughed, 

And made all tight and fast. 

He helped the sailors at their work, 

And toiled with jovial din ; 
He helped them hoist and reef the sails, 
He helped them stow the casks and bales, 

And heave the anchor in. 

But woe unto the lazy louts, 

The idlers of the crew ; 
Them to torment was his delight, 
And worry them by day and night, 

And pinch them black and blue. 

And woe to him whose mortal eyes 

Klaboterman behold. 
It is a certain sign of death ! — « 



THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN 157 

The cabin-boy here held his breath, 
He felt his blood run cold. 

n. 

The jolly skipper paused awhile, 

And then again began ; 
" There is a Spectre Ship," quoth he, 
" A ship of the Dead that sails the sea, 

And is called the Carmilhan. 

" A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, 
In tempests she appears ; 
And before the gale, or against the gale, 
She sails without a rag of sail, 
Without a helmsman steers. 

w She haunts the Atlantic north and south, 
But mostly the mid-sea, 
Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare 
Like furnace chimneys in the air, 
And are called the Chimneys Three. 

w And ill betide the luckless ship 

That meets the Carmilhan ; 
Over her decks the seas will leap, 
She must go down into the deep, 

And perish mouse and man." 

The captain of the Valdemar 
Laughed loud with merry heart. 

" I should like to see this ship," said he ; 

" I should like to find these Chimneys Three 
That are marked down in the chart. 



158 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

" I have sailed right over the spot," he said, 

" With a good stiff breeze behind, 
When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear, — 
You can follow my course by these pinholes 
here, — 

And never a rock could find." 

And then he swore a dreadful oath, 

He swore by the Kingdoms Three, 
That, should he meet the Carmilhan, 
He would run her down, although he ran 

Right into Eternity ! 

All this, while passing to and fro, 

The cabin-boy had heard ; 
He lingered at the door to hear, 
And drank in all with greedy ear, 

And pondered every word. 

He was a simple country lad, 

But of a roving mind. 
" Oh, it must be like heaven," thought he, 
" Those far-off foreign lands to see, 

And fortune seek and find ! " 

But in the fo'castle, when he heard 

The mariners blaspheme, 
He thought of home, he thought of God, 
And his mother under the churchyard sod, 

And wished it were a dream. 

One friend on board that ship had he ; 
'T was the Klaboterman, 



THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN 159 

Who saw the Bible in his chest, 
And made a sign upon his breast, 
All evil things to ban. 

in. 

The cabin windows have grown blank 

As eyeballs of the dead ; 
No more the glancing sunbeams burn 
On the gilt letters of the stern, 

But on the figure-head ; 

On Valdemar Victorious, 

Who looketh with disdain 
To see his image in the tide 
Dismembered float from side to side, 

And reunite again. 

" It is the wind," those skippers said, 

" That swings the vessel so ; 
It is the wind ; it freshens fast, 
'T is time to say farewell at last, • 

'T is time for us to go." 

They shook the captain by the hand, 

" Good luck ! good luck ! " they cried ; 
Each face was like the setting sun, 
As, broad and red, they one by one 
Went o'er the vessel's side. 

The sun went down, the full moon rose, 

Serene o'er field and flood ; 
And all the winding creeks and bays 
And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze, 

The sky was red as blood. 



160 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The southwest wind blew fresh and fair, 

As fair as wind could be ; 
Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar, 
"With all sail set, the Valdemar 

Went proudly out to sea. 

The lovely moon climbs up the sky 

As one who walks in dreams ; 
A tower of marble in her light, 
A wall of black, a wall of white, 
The stately vessel seems. 

Low down upon the sandy coast 

The lights begin to burn ; 
And now, uplifted high in air, 
They kindle with a fiercer glare, 

And now drop far astern. 

The dawn appears, the land is gone, 

The sea is all around ; 
Then on each hand low hills of sand 
Emerge and form another land ; 

She steereth through the Sound. 

Through Kattegat and Skager-rack 

She flitteth like a ghost ; 
By day and night, by night and day, 
She bounds, she flies upon her way 

Along the English coast. 

Cape Finisterre is drawing near, 

Cape Finisterre is past ; 
Into the open ocean stream 



THE BALLAD OF CARM1LHAN 161 

She floats, the vision of a dream 
Too beautiful to last. 



Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet 

There is no land in sight ; 
The liquid planets overhead 
Burn brighter now the moon is dead, 

And longer stays the night. 

rv. 

And now along the horizon's edge 

Mountains of cloud uprose, 
Black as with forests underneath, 
Above, their sharp and jagged teeth 

Were white as drifted snows. 

Unseen behind them sank the sun, 

But flushed each snowy peak 
A little while with rosy light, 
That faded slowly from the sight 

As blushes from the cheek. 

Black grew the sky, — all black, all black ; 

The clouds were everywhere ; 
There was a feeling of suspense 
In nature, a mysterious sense 

Of terror in the air. 

And all on board the Valdemar 

Was still as still could be ; 
Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, 
As ever and anon she rolled, 

And lurched into the sea. 



162 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The captain up and down the deck 

Went striding to and fro ; 
Now watched the compass at the wheel, 
Now lifted up his hand to feel 

Which way the wind might blow. 

And now he looked up at the sails, 

And now upon the deep ; 
In every fibre of his frame 
He felt the storm before it came, 

He had no thought of sleep. 

Eight bells ! and suddenly abaft, 

With a great rush of rain, 
Making the ocean white with spume, 
In darkness like the day of doom, 

On came the hurricane. 

The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, 

And rent the sky in two ; 
A jagged flame, a single jet 
Of white fire, like a bayonet, 

That pierced the eyeballs through. 

Then all around was dark again, 

And blacker than before ; 
But in that single flash of light 
He had beheld a fearful sight, 

And thought of the oath he swore. 

For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, 

The ghostly Carmilhan ! 
Her masts were stripped, her j T ards were barej 



THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN 163 

And on her bowsprit, poised in air, 
Sat the Klaboterman. 

Her crew of ghosts was all on deck 

Or clambering up the shrouds ; 
The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail 
Were like the piping of the gale, 

And thunder in the clouds. 

And close behind the Carmilhan 

There rose up from the sea, 
As from a foundered ship of stone, 
Three bare and splintered masts alone : 

They were the Chimneys Three. 

And onward dashed the Valdemar 

And leaped into the dark ; 
A denser mist, a colder blast, 
A little shudder, and she had passed 

Right through the Phantom Bark. 

She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, 

But cleft it unaware ; 
As when, careering to her nest, 
The sea-gull severs with her breast 

The unresisting air. 

Again the lightning flashed ; again 

They saw the Carmilhan, 
Whole as before in hull and spar ; 
But now on board of the Valdemar 

Stood the Klaboterman. 



164 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And they all knew their doom was sealed ; 

They knew that death was near ; 
Some prayed who never prayed before, 
And some they wept, and some they swore, 

And some were mute with fear. 

Then suddenly there came a shock, 

And louder than wind or sea 
A cry burst from the crew on deck, 
As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck^ 

Upon the Chimneys Three. 

The storm and night were passed, the light 

To streak the east began ; 
The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, 
Survived the wreck, and only he, 

To tell of the Carmilhan. 



INTERLUDE. 

When the long murmur of applause 
That greeted the Musician's lay 
Had slowly buzzed itself away, 
And the long talk of Spectre Ships 
That followed died upon their lips 
And came unto a natural pause, 

" These tales you tell are one and all 
Of the Old World," the Poet said, 

" Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, 
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall ; 
Let me present you in their stead 
Something of our New England earth, 



INTERLUDE 165 

A tale, which, though of no great worth, 

Has still this merit, that it yields 

A certain freshness of the fields, 

A sweetness as of home-made bread. " 

The Student answered : " Be discreet ; 
For if the flour be fresh and sound, 
And if the bread be light and sweet, 
Who careth in what mill 't was ground, 
Or of what oven felt the heat, 
Unless, as old Cervantes said, 
You are looking after better bread 
Than any that is made of wheat ? 
You know that people nowadays 
To what is old give little praise ; 
All must be new in prose and verse ; 
They want hot bread, or something worse, 
Fresh every morning, and half baked 5 
The wholesome bread of yesterday, 
Too stale for them, is thrown away, 
Nor is their thirst with water slaked." 

As oft we see the sky in May 
Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, 
The Poet's face, before so gay, 
Was clouded with a look of pain, 
But suddenly brightened up again; 
And without further let or stay 
He told his tale of yesterday,. 



166 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

THE POET'S TALE. 

LADY WENTWORTH. 

"May 24, 1871. Finished a new tale for the second day of 
Wayside Inn; a New England story, Lady Wentworth." The 
story was begun on the 22d. A few days later Mr. Longfellow 
made an excursion to Portsmouth with Mr. James T. Fields, and 
wrote of it to Mr. Greene : "I had a most successful day with 
Fields at his native town, and saw sundry curious old houses ; 
among them the Wentworth house, which I was anxious to see, 
having already described it in a poem. I found it necessary to 
change only a single line, which was lucky." 

One hundred years ago, and something more, 
In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, 
Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, 
Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, 
Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. 
Above her head, resplendent on the sign, 
The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 
In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, 
Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, 
Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, 
And half resolved, though he was past his prime, 
And rather damaged by the lapse of time, 
To fall down at her feet, and to declare 
The passion that had driven him to despair. 
For from his lofty station he had seen 
Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, 
Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, 
Down the long lane, and out into the land, 
And knew that he was far upon the way 
To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! 



LADY WENTWORTH 167 

Just then the meditations of the Earl 
Were interrupted by a little girl, 
Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, 
Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, 
A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, 
Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, 
A creature men would worship and adore, 
Though now in mean habiliments she bore 
A pail of water, dripping through the street, 
And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. 

It was a pretty picture, full of grace, — 

The slender form, the delicate, thin face ; 

The swaying motion, as she hurried by ; 

The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, 

That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced. 

As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced : 

And with uncommon feelings of delight 

The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. 

Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say 

These words, or thought he did, as plain as day : 

" O Martha Hilton ! Fie ! how dare you go 

About the town half dressed, and looking so ! " 

At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied : 

" No matter how I look ; I yet shall ride 

In my own chariot, ma'am." And on the child 

The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, 

As with her heavy burden she passed on, 

Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone. 

What next, upon that memorable day, 

Arrested his attention was a gay 

And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun,- 



168 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The silver harness glittering in the sun, 
Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, 
Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank, 
While all alone within the chariot sat 
A portly person with three-cornered hat, 
A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, 
Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, 
And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, 
Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. 
Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, 
Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast ; 
For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down 
To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, 
Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, 
A goodly place, where it was good to be. 

It was a pleasant mansion, an abode 
Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, 
Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, 
Baronial and colonial in its style ; 
Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, 
And stacks of chimneys rising high in air, — 
Pandsean pipes, on which all winds that blew 
Made mournful music the whole winter through. 
Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, 
Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry ; 
Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs 
Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs ; 
Doors opening into darkness unawares, 
Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs ; 
And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, 
The ancestral Wentworths with Old - Scripture 
names. 



LADY WENTWORTH 169 

Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt, 

A widower and childless ; and he felt 

The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, 

That like a presence haunted every room ; 

For though not given to weakness, he could feel 

The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal 

The years came and the years went, — seven in 

all, 
And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the Hall ; 
The dawns their splendor through its chambers 

shed, 
The sunsets flushed its western windows red ; 
The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain ; 
Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again ; 
Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and 

died, 
In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, 
Ships went to sea, and ships came home from 

sea, 
And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. 

And all these years had Martha Hilton served 
In the Great House, not wholly unobserved : 
By day, by night, the silver crescent grew, 
Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining 

through ; 
A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, 
A servant who made service seem divine ! 
Through her each room was fair to look upon ; 
The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, 
The very knocker on the outer door, 
If she but passed, was brighter than before. 



170 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And now the ceaseless turning of the mill 
Of time, that never for an hour stands still, 
Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday, 
And powdered his brown hair with silver-gray. 
The robin, the forerunner of the spring, 
The bluebird with his jocund carolling, 
The restless swallows building in the eaves, 
The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, 
The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, 
All welcomed this majestic holiday ! 
He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate, 
Such as became the Governor of the State, 
Who represented England and the King, 
And was magnificent in everything. 
He had invited all his friends and peers, — 
The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, 
The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest ; 
For why repeat the name of every guest ? 
But I must mention one in bands and gown, 
The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown 
Of the Established Church ; with smiling face 
He sat beside the Governor and said grace ; 
And then the feast went on, as others do, 
But ended as none other I e'er knew. 

When they had drunk the King, with many a 

cheer, 
The Governor whispered in a servant's ear, 
Who disappeared, and presently there stood 
Within the room, in perfect womanhood, 
A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, 
Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. 
Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be ! 



INTERLUDE 171 

Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she ! 
Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, 
How ladylike, how queenlike she appears ; 
The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by 
Is Dian now in all her majesty ! 
Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, 
Until the Governor, rising from his chair, 
Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, 
And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown : 
" This is my birthday : it shall likewise be 
My wedding-day ; and you shall marry me ! " 

The listening guests were greatly mystified, 

None more so than the rector, who replied : 

" Marry you ? Yes, that were a pleasant task, 

Your Excellency ; but to whom ? I ask." 

The Governor answered : " To this lady here ; " 

And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. 

She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. 

The rector paused. The impatient Governor cried : 

*' This is the lady ; do you hesitate ? 

Then I command you as Chief Magistrate." 

The rector read the service loud and clear : 

" Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," 

And so on to the end. At his command 

On the fourth finger of her fair left hand 

The Governor placed the ring ; and that was all : 

Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall ! 

INTERLUDE. 

Well pleased the audience heard the tale. 
The Theologian said : " Indeed, 



172 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

To praise you there is little need ; 

One almost hears the farmer's flail 

Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail 

A certain freshness, as you said, 

And sweetness as of home-made breado 

But not less sweet and not less fresh 

Are many legends that I know, 

Writ by the monks of long-ago, 

Who loved to mortify the flesh, 

So that the soul might purer grow, 

And rise to a diviner state ; 

And one of these — perhaps of all 

Most beautiful — I now recall, 

And with permission will narrate ; 

Hoping thereby to make amends 

For that grim tragedy of mine, 

As strong and black as Spanish wine, 

I told last night, and wish almost 

It had remained untold, my friends ; 

For Torquemada's awful ghost 

Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, 

And in the darkness glared and gleamed 

Like a great light-house on the coast." 

The Student laughing said : " Far more 

Like to some dismal fire of bale 

Flaring portentous on a hill ; 

Or torches lighted on a shore 

By wreckers in a midnight gale. 

No matter; be it as you will, 

Only go forward with your tale." 



THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL 173 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 

"June 12, 1871. Looking for the theme of another story. 
Fix upon The Legend Beautiful and begin it." 

" Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled! " 
That is what the Vision said. 

In his chamber all alone, 
Kneeling on the floor of stone, 
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition 
For his sins of indecision, 
Prayed for greater self-denial 
In temptation and in trial ; 
It was noonday by the dial, 
And the Monk was all alone. 

Suddenly, as if it lightened, 
An unwonted splendor brightened 
All within him and without him 
In that narrow cell of stone ; 
And he saw the Blessed Vision 
Of our Lord, with light Elysian 
Like a vesture wrapped about Him, 
Like a garment round Him thrown. 

Not as crucified and slain, 
Not in agonies of pain, 
Not with bleeding hands and feet, 
Did the Monk his Master see ; 
But as in the village street, 



174 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

In the house or harvest-field, 

Halt and lame and blind He healed, 

When He walked in Galilee. 

In an attitude imploring, 

Hands upon his bosom crossed, 

Wondering, worshipping, adoring, 

Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. 

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, 

Who am I, that thus thou deignest 

To reveal thyself to me ? 

Who am I, that from the centre 

Of thy glory thou shouldst enter 

This poor cell, my guest to be ? 

Then amid his exaltation, 
Loud the convent bell appalling* 
From its belfry calling, calling, 
Rang through court and corrida 
With persistent iteration 
He had never heard before. 
It was now the appointed hour 
When alike in shine or shower, 
Winter's cold or summer's heat 4 
To the convent portals came 
All the blind and halt and lamt 
All the beggars of the street, 
For their daily dole of food 
Dealt them by the brotherhood % 
And their almoner was he 
Who upon his bended knee, 
Eapt in silent ecstasy 
Of divinest self-surrender, 
Saw the Vision and the Splendor. 



THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL 175 

Deep distress and hesitation 
Mingled with his adoration ; 
Should he go or should he stay ? 
Should he leave the poor to wait 
Hungry at the convent gate, 
Till the Vision passed away ? 
Should he slight his radiant guest, 
Slight this visitant celestial, 
For a crowd of ragged, bestial 
Beggars at the convent gate ? 
Would the Vision there remain? 
Would the Vision come again ? 
Then a voice within his breast 
Whispered, audible and clear 
As if to the outward ear : 
s * Do thy duty ; that is best ; 
Leave unto thy Lord the rest ! " 

Straightway to his feet he started, 
And with longing look intent 
On the Blessed Vision bent, 
Slowly from his cell departed, 
Slowly on his errand went. 

At the gate the poor were waiting, 
Looking through the iron grating, 
With that terror in the eye 
That is only seen in those 
Who amid their wants and woes 
Hear the sound of doors that close, 
And of feet that pass them by ; 
Grown familiar with disfavor, 
Grown familiar with the savor 



176 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Of the bread by which men die ! 
But to-day, they knew not why, 
Like the gate of Paradise 
Seemed the convent gate to rise, 
Like a sacrament divine 
Seemed to them the bread and wine. 
In his heart the Monk was praying, 
Thinking of the homeless poor, 
What they suffer and endure ; 
What we see not, what we see ; 
And the inward voice was saying : 
** Whatsoever thing thou doest 
To the least of mine and lowest, 
That thou doest unto me ! " 

Unto me ! but had the Vision 
Come to him in beggar's clothing, 
Come a mendicant imploring, 
Would he then have knelt adoring, 
Or have listened with derision, 
And have turned away with loathing ? 

Thus his conscience put the question, 
Full of troublesome suggestion, 
As at length, with hurried pace, 
Towards his cell he turned his face, 
And beheld the convent bright 
With a supernatural light, 
Like a luminous cloud expanding 
Over floor and wall and ceiling. 

But he paused with awe-struck feeling 
At the threshold of his door, 



INTERLUDE 111 

For the Vision still was standing 
As he left it there before, 
When the convent bell appalling, 
From its belfry calling, calling, 
Summoned him to feed the poor. 
Through the long hour intervening 
It had waited his return, 
And he felt his bosom burn, 
Comprehending all the meaning, 
When the Blessed Vision said, 
" Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled ! H 

INTERLUDE. 

All praised the Legend more or less ; 
Some liked the moral, some the verse ; 
Some thought it better, and some worse 
Than other legends of the past ; 
Until, with ill-concealed distress 
At all their cavilling, at last 
The Theologian gravely said : 
" The Spanish proverb, then, is right ; 
Consult your friends on what you do, 
And one will say that it is white, 
And others say that it is red." 
And " Amen ! " quoth the Spanish Jew» 

" Six stories told ! We must have seven, 
A cluster like the Pleiades, 
And lo ! it happens, as with these, 
That one is missing from our heaven. 
Where is the Landlord ? Bring him here ; 
Let the Lost Pleiad reappear." 



178 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Thus the Sicilian cried, and went 
Forthwith to seek his missing star, 
But did not find him in the bar, 
A place that landlords most frequent, 
Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, 
Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall ; 
It was in vain to ask or call, 
There were no tidings of the Squire. 

So he came back with downcast head, 
Exclaiming : " Well, our bashful host 
Hath surely given up the ghost. 
Another proverb says the dead 
Can tell no tales ; and that is true. 
It follows, then, that one of you 
Must tell a story in his stead. 
You must," he to the Student said, 
u Who know so many of the best, 
And tell them better than the rest." 

Straight, by these flattering words beguiled, 
The Student, happy as a child 
When he is called a little man, 
Assumed the double task imposed, 
And without more ado unclosed 
His smiling lips, and thus began. 




_■ ^^ 

tf .S « 
« .§1 

W<1 



THE BARON OF ST. CAST1NE 179 

THE STUDENT'S SECOND TALE. 

THE BARON OF ST. CASTTNB. 
Finished December 3, 1811. 

Baron Castine of St. Castine 

Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, 

And sailed across the western seas. 

When he went away from his fair demesne 

The birds were building, the woods were green ; 

And now the winds of winter blow 

Round the turrets of the old chateau, 

The birds are silent and unseen, 

The leaves lie dead in the ravine, 

And the Pyrenees are white with snow* 

His father, lonely, old, and gray, 

Sits by the fireside day by day, 

Thinking ever one thought of care ; 

Through the southern windows, narrow and tall, 

The sun shines into the ancient hall, 

And makes a glory round his hair. 

The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair, 

Groans in his sleep, as if in pain, 

Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, 

So silent is it everywhere, — 

So silent you can hear the mouse 

Run and rummage along the beams 

Behind the wainscot of the wall ; 

And the old man rouses from his dreams, 

And wanders restless through the house, 

As if he heard strange voices call. 



180 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

His footsteps echo along the floor 
Of a distant passage, and pause awhile ; 
He is standing by an open door 
Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, 
Into the room of his absent son. 
There is the bed on which he lay, 
There are the pictures bright and gay, 
Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas ; 
There are his powder-flask and gun, 
And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan ; 
The chair by the window where he sat, 
With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat, 
Looking out on the Pyrenees, 
Looking out on Mount Marbore* 
And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan. 
Ah me ! he turns away and sighs ; 
There is a mist before his eyes. 

At night, whatever the weather be, 
Wind or rain or starry heaven, 
Just as the clock is striking seven, 
Those who look from the windows see 
The village Curate, with lantern and maid, 
Come through the gateway from the park 
And cross the courtyard damp and dark, — 
A ring of light in a ring of shade. 

And now at the old man's side he stands, 
His voice is cheery, his heart expands, 
He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze 
Of the fire of fagots, about old days, 
And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, 
And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond, 



THE BARON OF ST CASTINE 181 

And what they did, and what they said, 
When they heard his Eminence was dead. 

And after a pause the old man says, 

His mind still coming back again 

To the one sad thought that haunts his brain 9 

' 6 Are there any tidings from over sea ? 

Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me ? " 

And the Curate answers, looking down, 

Harmless and docile as a lamb, 

" Young blood ! young blood ! It must so be ! " 

And draws from the pocket of his gown 

A handkerchief like an oriflamb, 

And wipes his spectacles, and they play 

Their little game of lansquenet 

In silence for an hour or so, 

Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear 

From the village lying asleep below, 

And across the courtyard, into the dark 

Of the winding pathway in the park, 

Curate and lantern disappear, 

And darkness reigns in the old chateau. 

The ship has come back from over sea, 
She has been signalled from below, 
And into the harbor of Bordeaux 
She sails with her gallant company. 
But among them is nowhere seen 
The brave young Baron of St. Castine ; 
He hath tarried behind, I ween, 
In the beautiful land of Acadie ! 

And the father paces to and fro 
Through the chambers of the old chateau, 



182 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Waiting, waiting to hear the hum 

Of wheels on the road that runs below, 

Of servants hurrying here and there, 

The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair, 

Waiting for some one who doth not come ! 

But letters there are, which the old man reads 

To the Curate, when he comes at night, 

Word by word, as an acolyte 

Repeats his prayers and tells his beads ; 

Letters full of the rolling sea, 

Full of a young man's joy to be 

Abroad in the world, alone and free ; 

Full of adventures and wonderful scenes 

Of hunting the deer through forests vast 

In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast ; 

Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines ; 

Of Madocawando the Indian chief, 

And his daughters, glorious as queens, 

And beautiful beyond belief ; 

And so soft the tones of their native tongue, 

The words are not spoken, they are sung ! 

And the Curate listens, and smiling says : 

" Ah yes, dear friend ! in our young days 

We should have liked to hunt the deer 

All day amid those forest scenes, 

And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines ; 

But now it is better sitting here 

Within four walls, and without the fear 

Of losing our hearts to Indian queens ; 

For man is fire and woman is tow, 

And the Somebody comes and begins to blow." 

Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise 



THE BARON OF ST. CAST1NE 183 

Shines in the father's gentle eyes, 
As fire-light on a window-pane 
Glimmers and vanishes again ; 
But naught he answers ; he only sighs, 
And for a moment bows his head ; 
Then, as their custom is, they play 
Their little game of lansquenet, 
And another day is with the dead. 

Another day, and many a day 

And many a week and month depart, 

When a fatal letter wings its way 

Across the sea, like a bird of prey, 

And strikes and tears the old man's heart. 

Lo ! the young Baron of St. Castine, 

Swift as the wind is, and as wild, 

Has married a dusky Tarratine, 

Has married Madocawando's child ! 

The letter drops from the father's hand ; 
Though the sinews of his heart are wrung, 
He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, 
No malediction falls from his tongue ; 
But his stately figure, erect and grand, 
Bends and sinks like a column of sand 
In the whirlwind of his great despair. 
Dying, yes, dying ! His latest breath 
Of parley at the door of death 
Is a blessing on his wayward son. 
Lower and lower on his breast 
Sinks his gray head ; he is at rest ; 
No longer he waits for any one. 



184 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

For many a year the old chateau 
Lies tenantless and desolate ; 
Rank grasses in the courtyard grow, 
About its gables caws the crow ; 
Only the porter at the gate 
Is left to guard it, and to wait 
The coming of the rightful heir ; 
No other life or sound is there ; 
No more the Curate comes at night, 
No more is seen the unsteady light, 
Threading the alleys of the park ; 
The windows of the hall are dark, 
The chambers dreary, cold, and bare ! 

At length, at last, when the winter is past, 

And birds are building, and woods are green, 

With flying skirts is the Curate seen 

Speeding along the woodland way, 

Humming gayly, " No day is so long 

But it comes at last to vesper-song." 

He stops at the porter's lodge to say 

That at last the Baron of St. Castine 

Is coming home with his Indian queen, 

Is coming without a week's delay ; 

And all the house must be swept and clean, 

And all things set in good array ! 

And the solemn porter shakes his head ; 

And the answer he makes is : " Lackaday ! 

We will see, as the blind man said ! " 

Alert since first the day began, 
The cock upon the village church 
Looks northward from his airy perch, 



THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE 185 

As if beyond the ken of man 
To see the ships come sailing on, 
And pass the Isle of Oleron, 
And pass the Tower of Cordouan. 

In the church below is cold in clay 

The heart that would have leaped for joy — 

O tender heart of truth and trust ! — 

To see the coming of that day ; 

In the church below the lips are dust ; 

Dust are the hands, and dust the feet 

That would have been so swift to meet 

The coming of that wayward boy. 

At night the front of the old chateau 

Is a blaze of light above and below ; 

There 's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street, 

A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, 

Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, 

And the Baron hath come again to his own. 

The Curate is waiting in the hall, 

Most eager and alive of all 

To welcome the Baron and Baroness ; 

But his mind is full of vague distress, 

For he hath read in Jesuit books 

Of those children of the wilderness, 

And now, good, simple man ! he looks 

To see a painted savage stride 

Into the room, with shoulders bare, 

And eagle feathers in her hair, 

And around her a robe of panther's hide. 

Instead, he beholds with secret shame 
A form of beauty undefined, 



186 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

A loveliness without a name, 

Not of degree, but more of kind ; 

Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, 

But a new mingling of them all. 

Yes, beautiful beyond belief, 

Transfigured and transfused, he sees 

The lady of the Pyrenees, 

The daughter of the Indian chief. 

Beneath the shadow of her hair 

The gold-bronze color of the skin 

Seems lighted by a fire within, 

As when a burst of sunlight shines 

Beneath a sombre grove of pines, — 

A dusky splendor in the air. 

The two small hands, that now are pressed 

In his, seem made to be caressed, 

They lie so warm and soft and still, 

Like birds half hidden in a nest, 

Trustful, and innocent of ill. 

And ah ! he cannot believe his ears 

When her melodious voice he hears 

Speaking his native Gascon tongue ; 

The words she utters seem to be 

Part of some poem of Goudouli, 

They are not spoken, they are sung ! 

And the Baron smiles, and says, " You see, 

I told you but the simple truth ; 

Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth ! " 

Down in the village day by day 
The people gossip in their way, 
And stare to see the Baroness pass 
On Sunday morning to early Mass ; 



THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE 187 

And when she kneeleth down to pray, 
They wonder, and whisper together, and say 
u Surely this is no heathen lass ! " 
And in course of time they learn to bless 
The Baron and the Baroness. 

And in course of time the Curate learns 

A secret so dreadful, that by turns 

He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. 

The Baron at confession hath said, 

That though this woman be his wife, 

He hath wed her as the Indians wed, 

He hath bought her for a gun and a knife ! 

And the Curate replies : " O profligate, 

O Prodigal Son ! return once more 

To the open arms and the open door 

Of the Church, or ever it be too late. 

Thank God, thy father did not live 

To see what he could not forgive ; 

On thee, so reckless and perverse, 

He left his blessing, not his curse. 

But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, 

And by going wrong all things come right ; 

Things have been mended that were worse, 

And the worse, the nearer they are to mend. 

For the sake of the living and the dead, 

Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, 

And all things come to a happy end." 

O sun, that followest the night, 
In yon blue sky, serene and pure, 
And pourest thine impartial light 
Alike on mountain and on moor, 



188 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Pause for a moment in thy course, 

And bless the bridegroom and the bride ! 

O Gave, that from thy hidden source 

In yon mysterious mountain-side 

Pursuest thy wandering way alone, 

And leaping down its steps of stone, 

Along the meadow-lands demure 

Stealest away to the Adour, 

Pause for a moment in thy course 

To bless the bridegroom and the bride I" 

The choir is singing the matin song, 
The doors of the church are opened wide, 
The people crowd, and press, and throng 
To see the bridegroom and the bride. 
They enter and pass along the nave ; 
They stand upon the father's grave ; 
The bells are ringing soft and slow ; 
The living above and the dead below 
Give their blessing on one and twain ; 
The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain, 
The birds are building, the leaves are green, 
And Baron Castine of St. Castine 
Hath come at last to his own again. 



FINALE. 

" Nunc plaudite ! " the Student cried, 
When he had finished ; " now applaud, 
As Roman actors used to say 
At the conclusion of a play ; " 
And rose, and spread his hands abroad, 



FINALE 189 

And smiling bowed from side to side, 
As one who bears the palm away. 

And generous was the applause and loud, 
But less for him than for the sun, 
That even as the tale was done 
Burst from its canopy of cloud, 
And lit the landscape with the blaze 
Of afternoon on autumn days, 
And filled the room with light, and made 
The fire of logs a painted shade. 

A sudden wind from out the west 
Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill ; 
The windows rattled with the blast, 
The oak-trees shouted as it passed, 
And straight, as if by fear possessed, 
The cloud encampment on the hill 
Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent 
Vanished into the firmament, 
And down the valley fled amain 
The rear of the retreating rain. 

Only far up in the blue sky 

A mass of clouds, like drifted snow 

Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, 

Was heaped together, vast and high, 

On which a shattered rainbow hung, 

Not rising like the ruined arch 

Of some aerial aqueduct, 

But like a roseate garland plucked 

From an Olympian god, and flung 

Aside in his triumphal march. 



190 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, 
Like birds escaping from a snare, 
Like school-boys at the hour of play, 
All left at once the pent-up room, 
And rushed into the open air ; 
And no more tales were told that day» 



PART THIRD 

PRELUDE. 

The evening came ; the golden vane 
A moment in the sunset glanced, 
Then darkened, and then gleamed again, 
As from the east the moon advanced 
And touched it with a softer light ; 
While underneath, with flowing mane, 
Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, 
And galloped forth into the night. 

But brighter than the afternoon 
That followed the dark day of rain, 
And brighter than the golden vane 
That glistened in the rising moon, 
Within, the ruddy fire-light gleamed; 
And every separate window-pane, 
Backed by the outer darkness, showed 
A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed 
And flickered to and fro, and seemed 
A bonfire lighted in the road. 

Amid the hospitable glow, 
Like an old actor on the stage, 
With the uncertain voice of age, 
The singing chimney chanted low 
The homely songs of long ago. 



192 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The voice that Ossian heard of yore, 
When midnight winds were in his hall ; 
A ghostly and appealing call, 
A sound of days that are no more ! 
And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, 
And listened to the sound, and knew 
The passing of the airy hosts, 
The gray and misty cloud of ghosts 
In their interminable flight ; 
And listening muttered in his beard, 
With accent indistinct and weird, 
" Who are ye, children of the Night ? " 

Beholding his mysterious face, 
" Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, 
" Why was it that in breaking bread 

At supper, you bent down your head 

And, musing, paused a little space, 

As one who says a silent grace ? " 

The Jew replied, with solemn air, 
" I said the Manichsean's prayer. 
It was his faith, — perhaps is mine, — 
That life in all its forms is one, 
And that its secret conduits run 
Unseen, but in unbroken line, 
From the great fountain-head divine 
Through man and beast, through grain and grass. 
Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry, 
From death there can be no escape, 
And no escape from life, alas ! 
Because we cannot die, but pass 
From one into another shape : 
It is but into life we die. 




si a 

as a 



PRELUDE 193 

" Therefore the Manichsean said 
This simple prayer on breaking bread, 
Lest he with hasty hand or knife 
Might wound the incarcerated life, 
The soul in things that we call dead : 

* X did not reap thee, did not bind thee, 
I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee, 
Nor did I in the oven bake thee ! 
It was not I, it was another 
Did these things unto thee, O brother ; 
I only have thee, hold thee, break thee ! ' " 

» 

" That birds have souls I can concede," 
The Poet cried, with glowing cheeks ; 

" The flocks that from their beds of reed 
Uprising north or southward fly, 
And flying write upon the sky 
The biforked letter of the Greeks, 
As hath been said by Kucellai ; 
All birds that sing or chirp or cry, 
Even those migratory bands, 
The minor poets of the air, 
The plover, peep, and sanderling, 
That hardly can be said to sing, 
But pipe along the barren sands, — 
All these have souls akin to ours ; 
So hath the lovely race of flowers : 
Thus much I grant, but nothing more. 
The rusty hinges of a door 
Are not alive because they creak ; 
This chimney, with its dreary roar, 
These rattling windows, do not speak ! " 

" To me they speak," the Jew replied ; 



194 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

" And in the sounds that sink and soar, 
I hear the voices of a tide 
That breaks upon an unknown shore ! " 

Here the Sicilian interfered : 
"That was your dream, then, as you dozed 
A moment since, with eyes half-closed, 
And murmured something in your beard." 
The Hebrew smiled, and answered, " Nay ; 
Not that, but something very near ; 
Like, and yet not the same, may seem 
The vision of my waking dream ; 
Before it wholly dies away, 
Listen to me, and you shall hear." 

THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 

AZRAEL. 
Written May 24, 1872. 

King Solomon, before his palace gate 
At evening, on the pavement tessellate 
Was walking with a stranger from the East, 
Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast, 
The mighty Kunjeet-Sing, a learned man, 
And Eajah of the realms of Hindostan. 
And as they walked the guest became aware 
Of a white figure in the twilight air, 
Gazing intent, as one who with surprise 
His form and features seemed to recognize ; 
And in a whisper to the king he said : 
" What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, 
Is watching me, as if he sought to trace 
In the dim light the features of my face ? " 



INTERLUDE 195 

The king looked, and replied : " I know him well ; 
It is the Angel men call Azrael, 
'T is the Death Angel ; what hast thou to fear ? " 
And the guest answered: "Lest he should come 

near, 
And speak to me, and take away my breath ! 
Save me from Azrael, save me from death ! 

king, that hast dominion o'er the wind, 
Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind." 

The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky, 

Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high, 

And lo ! the signet-ring of chrysoprase 

On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze 

With hidden fire, and rushing from the west 

There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest 

And lifted him from earth, and on they passed, 

His shining garments streaming in the blast, 

A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, 

A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared. 

Then said the Angel, smiling : " If this man 

Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan, 

Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer ; 

1 was upon my way to seek him there." 

INTERLUDE. 

" O Edrehi, forbear to-night 
Your ghostly legends of affright, 
And let the Talmud rest in peace ; 
Spare us your dismal tales of death 
That almost take away one's breath ; 
So doing, may your tribe increase." 



196 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Thus the Sicilian said ; then went 
And on the spinet's rattling keys 
Played Marianina, like a breeze 
From Naples and the Southern seas, 
That brings us the delicious scent 
Of citron and of orange trees, 
.And memories of soft days of ease 
At Capri and Amalfi spent. 

" Not so," the eager Poet said ; 

" At least, not so before I tell 
The story of my Azrael, 
An angel mortal as ourselves, 
Which in an ancient tome I found 
Upon a convent's dusty shelves, 
Chained with an iron chain, and bound 
In parchment, and with clasps of brass, 
Lest from its prison, some dark day, 
It might be stolen or steal away, 
While the good friars were singing mass. 

" It is a tale of Charlemagne, 
When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers 
And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast, 
With lightning ,flaming through its showers, 
He swept across the Lombard plain, 
Beleaguering with his warlike train 
Pavia, the country's pride and boast, 
The City of the Hundred Towers." 

Thus heralded the tale began, 
And thus in sober measure ran. 



CHARLEMAGNE 197 

THE POET'S TALE. 

CHARLEMAGNE. 
Written May 12, 1872. 

Olger the Dane and Desiderio, 

King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower 

Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plains, 

League after league of harvests, to the foot 

Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach 

A mighty army, thronging all the roads 

That led into the city. And the King 

Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth 

As hostage at the court of France, and knew 

The Emperor's form and face : " Is Charlemagne 

Among that host ? " And Olger answered : " No." 

And still the innumerable multitude 

Flowed onward and increased, until the King 

Cried in amazement : " Surely Charlemagne 

Is coming in the midst of all these knights ! " 

And Olger answered slowly : " No ; not yet ; 

He will not come so soon." Then much disturbed 

King Desiderio asked : " What shall we do, 

If he approach with a still greater army ? " 

And Olger answered : " When he shall appear, 

You will behold what manner of man he is ; 

But what will then befall us I know not." 

Then came the guard that never knew repose, 
The Paladins of France ; and at the sight 
The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried : 



198 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

" This must be Charlemagne ! " and as before 
Did Olger answer : " No ; not yet, not yet." 

And then appeared in panoply complete 

The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests 

Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts ; 

And Desiderio could no more endure 

The light of day, nor yet encounter death, 

But sobbed aloud and said : " Let us go down 

And hide us in the bosom of the earth, 

Far from the sight and anger of a foe 

So terrible as this ! " And Olger said : 

" When you behold the harvests in the fields 

Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino 

Lashing the city walls with iron waves, 

Then may you know that Charlemagne is come." 

And even as he spake, in the northwest, 

Lo ! there uprose a black and threatening cloud, 

Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms 

Upon the people pent up in the city ; 

A light more terrible than any darkness, 

And Charlemagne appeared ; — a Man of Iron ! 

His helmet was of iron, and his gloves 
Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves 
And tassets were of iron, and his shield. 
In his left hand he held an iron spear, 
In his right hand his sword invincible. 
The horse he rode on had the strength of iron, 
And color of iron. All who went before him, 
Beside him and behind him, his whole host, 
Were armed with iron, and their hearts within 
them 



INTERLUDE 199 

Were stronger than the armor that they wore. 
The fields and all the roads were filled with iron, 
And points of iron glistened in the sun 
And shed a terror through the city streets. 

This at a single glance Olger the Dane 
Saw from the tower, and turning to the king 
Exclaimed in haste : " Behold ! this is the man 
You looked for with such eagerness ! " and then 
Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet. 



INTERLUDE. 

Well pleased all listened to the tale, 
That drew, the Student said, its pith 
And marrow from the ancient myth 
Of some one with an iron flail ; 
Or that portentous Man of Brass 
Hephaestus made in days of yore, 
Who stalked about the Cretan shore, 
And saw the ships appear and pass, 
And threw stones at the Argonauts, 
Being filled with indiscriminate ire 
That tangled and perplexed his thoughts ; 
But, like a hospitable host, 
When strangers landed on the coast, 
Heated himself red-hot with fire, 
And hugged them in his arms, and pressed 
Their bodies to his burning breast. 

The Poet answered : " No, not thus 
The legend rose ; it sprang at first 
Out of the hunger and the thirst 



200 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

In all men for the marvellous. 

And thus it filled and satisfied 

The imagination of mankind, 

And this ideal to the mind 

Was truer than historic fact. 

Fancy enlarged and multiplied 

The terrors of the awful name 

Of Charlemagne, till he became 

Armipotent in every act, 

And, clothed in mystery, appeared 

Not what men saw, but what they feared, 

" Besides, unless my memory fail, 
Your some one with an iron flail 
Is not an ancient myth at all, 
But comes much later on the scene 
As Talus in the Faerie Queene, 
The iron groom of Artegall, 
Who threshed out falsehood and deceit, 
And truth upheld, and righted wrong, 
And was, as is the swallow, fleet, 
And as the lion is, was strong." 

The Theologian said : " Perchance 

Your chronicler in writing this 

Had in his mind the Anabasis, 

Where Xenophon describes the advance 

Of Artaxerxes to the fight ; 

At first the low gray cloud of dust, 

And then a blackness o'er the fields 

As of a passing thunder-gust, 

Then flash of brazen armor bright, 

And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, 

Lines 12-21 are wanting in first edition. 



EMMA AND EGINHARD 201 

Bowmen and troops with wicker shields, 
And cavalry equipped in white, 
And chariots ranged in front of these 
With scythes upon their axle-trees." 

To this the Student answered : " Well, 
I also have a tale to tell 
Of Charlemagne ; a tale that throws 
A softer light, more tinged with rose, 
Than your grim apparition cast 
Upon the darkness of the past. 
Listen, and hear in English rhyme 
What the good Monk of Lauresheim 
Gives as the gossip of his time, 
In mediaeval Latin prose." 

THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

EMMA AND EGINHARD. 
Written November 9, 1872. 

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne, 
In the free schools of Aix, how kings should reign, 
And with them taught the children of the poor 
How subjects should be patient and endure, 
Be touched the lips of some, as best befit, 
With honey from the hives of Hoiy Writ ; 
Others intoxicated with the wine 
Of ancient history, sweet but less divine ; 
Some with the wholesome fruits of grammar fed ; 
Others with mysteries of the stars o'erhead, 
That hang suspended in the vaulted sky 
Like lamps in some fair palace vast and high. 



202 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see 
That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary, 
With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book, 
And mingled love and reverence in his look, 
Or hear the cloister and the court repeat 
The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet, 
Or watch him with the pupils of his school, 
Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule. 

Among them, always earliest in his place, 
Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race, 
Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun 
The splendors of a yet unrisen sun. 
To him all things were possible, and seemed 
Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed, 
And what were tasks to others were his play, 
The pastime of an idle holiday. 

Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said, 
With many a shrug and shaking of the head, 
Surely some demon must possess the lad, 
Who showed more wit than ever school-boy had, 
And learned his Trivium thus without the rod ; 
But Alcuin said it was the grace of God. 

Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device, 

Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice ; 

Science of Numbers, Geometric art, 

And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart ; 

A Minnesinger, long before the times 

Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes. 

The Emperor, when he heard this good report 
Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court, 



EMMA AND EGINHARD 203 

Said to himself, " This stripling seems to be 
Purposely sent into the world for me ; 
He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled 
In all the arts whereby the world is ruled. " 
Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain 
To honor in the court of Charlemagne ; 
Became the sovereign's favorite, his right hand, 
So that his fame was great in all the land, 
And all men loved him for his modest grace 
And comeliness of figure and of face. 
An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, 
A man of books, yet sacred from abuse 
Among the armed knights with spur on heel, 
The tramp of horses and the clang of steel ; 
And as the Emperor promised he was schooled 
In all the arts by which the world is ruled. 
But the one art supreme, whose law is fate, 
The Emperor never dreamed of till too late. 

Home from her convent to the palace came 
The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name, 
Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard, 
Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. 
He saw her from his window, as in state 
She came, by knights attended through the gate ; 
He saw her at the banquet of that day, 
Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May ; 
He saw her in the garden, as she strayed 
Among the flowers of summer with her maid, 
And said to him, " O Eginhard, disclose 
The meaning and the mystery of the rose ; " 
And trembling he made answer : " In good sooth, 
Its mystery is love, its meaning youth ! " 



204 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

How can I tell the signals and the signs 
By which one heart another heart divines ? 
How can I tell the many thousand ways 
By which it keeps the secret it betrays ? 

O mystery of love ! O strange romance ! 
Among the Peers and Paladins of France, 
Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds, 
Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds, 
The Princess Emma had no words nor looks 
But for this clerk, this man of thought and 
books. 

The summer passed, the autumn came ; the stalks 

Of lilies blackened in the garden walks ; 

The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red, 

Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led, 

Or Jove descending in a shower of gold 

Into the lap of Danae of old ; 

For poets cherish many a strange conceit, 

And love transmutes all nature by its heat. 

No more the garden lessons, nor the dark 

And hurried meetings in the twilight park ; 

But now the studious lamp, and the delights 

Of firesides in the silent winter nights, 

And watching from his window hour by hour 

The light that burned in Princess Emma's tower. 

At length one night, while musing by the fire, 
O'ercome at last by his insane desire, — 
For what will reckless love not do and dare ? 
He crossed the court, and climbed the winding 
stair, 



EMMA AND EGINHARD 205 

With some feigned message in the Emperor's 

name ; 
But when he to the lady's presence came 
He knelt down at her feet, until she laid 
Her hand upon him, like a naked blade, 
And whispered in his ear : " Arise, Sir Knight, 
To my heart's level, O my heart's delight." 

And there he lingered till the crowing cock, 
The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock, 
Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear, 
To tell the sleeping world that dawn was near. 
And then they parted ; but at parting, lo ! 
They saw the palace courtyard white with snow, 
And, placid as a nun, the moon on high 
Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky. 
" Alas ! " he said, " how hide the fatal line 
Of footprints leading from thy door to mine, 
And none returning ! " Ah, he little knew 
What woman's wit, when put to proof, can do ! 

That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares 
And troubles that attend on state affairs, 
Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed 
Into the silent night, as one amazed 
To see the calm that reigned o'er all supreme, 
When his own reign was but a troubled dream. 
The moon lit up the gables capped with snow, 
And the white roofs, and half the court below, 
And he beheld a form, that seemed to cower 
Beneath a burden, come from Emma's tower, — • 
A woman, who upon her shoulders bore 
Clerk Eginhard to his own private door, 



206 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And then returned in haste, but still essayed 
To tread the footprints she herself had made ; 
And as she passed across the lighted space, 
The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's face ! 

He started not ; he did not speak or moan, 
But seemed as one who hath been turned to stone % 
And stood there like a statue, nor awoke 
Out of his trance of pain, till morning broke, 
Till the stars faded, and the moon went down, 
And o'er the towers and steeples of the town 
Came the gray daylight ; then the sun, who took 
The empire of the world with sovereign look, 
Suffusing with a soft and golden glow 
All the dead landscape in its shroud of snow, 
Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires, 
Windows and roofs, and smoke of household fires, 
And kindling park and palace as he came ; 
The stork's nest on the chimney seemed in flame. 
And thus he stood till Eginhard appeared, 
Demure and modest with his comely beard 
And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask, 
As was his wont, the day's appointed task. 
The Emperor looked upon him with a smile, 
And gently said : " My son, wait yet awhile ; 
This hour my council meets upon some great 
And very urgent business of the state. 
Come back within the hour. On thy return 
The work appointed for thee shalt thou learn." 

Having dismissed this gallant Troubadour, 
He summoned straight his council, and secure 
And steadfast in his purpose, from the throne 



EMMA AND EGINHARD 207 

All the adventure of the night made known ; 
Then asked for sentence ; and with eager breath 
Some answered banishment, and others death. 

Then spake the king: " Your sentence is not mine*, 

Life is the gift of God, and is divine ; 

Nor from these palace walls shall one depart 

Who carries such a secret in his heart ; 

My better judgment points another way. 

Good Alcuin, I remember how one day 

When my Pepino asked you, ' What are men ? ' 

You wrote upon his tablets with your pen, 

4 Guests of the grave and travellers that pass ! ' 

This being true of all men, we, alas ! 

Being all fashioned of the selfsame dust, 

Let us be merciful as well as just ; 

This passing traveller, who hath stolen away 

The brightest jewel of my crown to-day, 

Shall of himself the precious gem restore ; 

By giving it, I make it mine once more. 

Over those fatal footprints I will throw 

My ermine mantle like another snow." 

Then Eginhard was summoned to the hall, 

And entered, and in presence of them all, 

The Emperor said : " My son, for thou to me 

Hast been a son, and evermore shalt be, 

Long hast thou served thy sovereign, and thy zeal 

Pleads to me with importunate appeal, 

While I have been forgetful to requite 

Thy service and affection as was right. 

But now the hour is come, when I, thy Lord, 

Will crown thy love with such supreme reward, 



208 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

A gift so precious kings have striven in vain 
To win it from the hands of Charlemagne." 

Then sprang the portals of the chamber wide, 
And Princess Emma entered, in the pride 
Of birth and beauty, that in part o'ercame 
The conscious terror and the blush of shame. 
And the good Emperor rose up from his throne. 
And taking her white hand within his own 
Placed it in Eginhard's, and said : " My son, 
This is the gift thy constant zeal hath won ; 
Thus I repay the royal debt I owe, 
And cover up the footprints in the snow." 



INTERLUDE. 

Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme 
Of Eginhard and love and youth ; 
Some doubted its historic truth, 
But while they doubted, nevertheless 
Saw in it gleams of truthfulness, 
And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim. 

This they discussed in various mood ; 
Then in the silence that ensued 
Was heard a sharp and sudden sound 
As of a bowstring snapped in air ; 
And the Musician with a bound 
Sprang up in terror from his chair, 
And for a moment listening stood, 
Then strode across the room, and found 
His dear, his darling violin 
Still lying safe asleep within 



INTERLUDE 209 

Its little cradle, like a child 

That gives a sudden cry of pain, 

And wakes to fall asleep again ; 

And as he looked at it and smiled, 

By the uncertain light beguiled, 

Despair ! two strings were broken in twain. 

While all lamented and made moan, 
With many a sympathetic word 
As if the loss had been their own, 
Deeming the tones they might have heard 
Sweeter than they had heard before, 
They saw the Landlord at the door, 
The missing man, the portly Squire ! 
He had not entered, but he stood 
With both arms full of seasoned wood, 
To feed the much-devouring fire, 
That like a lion in a cage 
Lashed its long tail and roared with rage. 

The missing man ! Ah, yes, they said, 
Missing, but whither had he fled ? 
Where had he hidden himself away ? 
No farther than the barn or shed ; 
He had not hidden himself, nor fled ; 
How should he pass the rainy day 
But in his barn with hens and hay, 
Or mending harness, cart, or sled ? 
Now, having come, he needs must stay 
And tell his tale as well as they. 

The Landlord answered only : " These 
Are logs from the dead apple-trees 



210 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Of the old orchard planted here 

By the first Howe of Sudbury. 

Nor oak nor maple has so clear 

A flame, or burns so quietly, 

Or leaves an ash so clean and white ; " 

Thinking by this to put aside 

The impending tale that terrified ; 

When suddenly, to his delight, 

The Theologian interposed, 

Saying that when the door was closed, 

And they had stopped that draft of cold, 

Unpleasant night air, he proposed 

To tell a tale world-wide apart 

From that the Student had just told ; 

World-wide apart, and yet akin, 

As showing that the human heart 

Beats on forever as of old, 

As well beneath the snow-white fold 

Of Quaker kerchief, as within 

Sendal or silk or cloth of gold, 

And without preface would begin. 

And then the clamorous clock struck eight. 

Deliberate, with sonorous chime 

Slow measuring out the march of time, 

Like some grave Consul of Old Rome 

In Jupiter's temple driving home 

The nails that marked the year and date. 

Thus interrupted in his rhyme, 

The Theologian needs must wait ; 

But quoted Horace, where he sings 

The dire Necessity of things, 

That drives into the roofs sublime 



ELIZABETH 211 

Of new-built houses of the great 
The adamantine nails of Fate. 

When ceased the little carillon 
To herald from its wooden tower 
The important transit of the hour, 
The Theologian hastened on, 
Content to be allowed at last 
To sing his Idyl of the Past. 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

ELIZABETH. 

Finished January 29, 1873. 

I. 

" Ah, how short are the days ! How soon the 

night overtakes us ! 
In the old country the twilight is longer ; but here 

in the forest 
Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in 

its coming, 
Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day 

and the lamplight ; 
Yet how grand is the winter ! How spotless the 

snow is, and perfect ! " 

Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to 

Hannah the housemaid, 
As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for 

kitchen and parlor, 
By the window she sat with her work, and looked 

on a landscape 



212 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in 
his vision, 

By the four corners let down and descending out 
of the heavens. 

Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and 
the fields and the meadows. 

Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant 
Delaware flowing 

Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bounti- 
ful river. 

Then with a smile on her lips made answer 

Hannah the housemaid : 
" Beautiful winter ! yea, the winter is beautiful, 

surely, 
If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet on 

the ceiling. 
But the great Delaware Kiver is not like the 

Thames, as we saw it 
Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street 

in the Borough, 
Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming 

and going ; 
Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of 

snow on their branches. 
There is snow in the air, and see ! it is falling 

already ; 
All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph 

to-morrow, 
Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled 

and oxen ; and then, too, 
How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on 

First-Day ? " 



ELIZABETH 213 

But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly 
reproving : 

u Surely the Lord will provide ; for unto the snow 
He sayeth, 

Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth ; He 
is it 

Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar- 
frost." 

So she folded her work and laid it away in her 
basket. 

Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed 

and fastened the shutters, 
Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the 

table, and placed there 
Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye 

loaf, and the butter 
Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her 

hand with a holder, 
Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming 

and simmering kettle, 
Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the 

earthen teapot, 
Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and won- 
derful figures. 

Then Elizabeth said, " Lo ! Joseph is long on 

his errand. 
I have sent him away with a hamper of food and 

of clothing 
For the poor in the village. A good lad and 

cheerful is Joseph ; 
In the right place is his heart, and his hand is 

ready and willing." 



214 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and 
Hannah the housemaid 

Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but gov- 
erned her tongue, and was silent, 

While her mistress went on : " The house is far 
from the village ; 

We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends 
that in passing 

Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us glad by 
their coming." 

Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, 

the thrifty, the frugal : 
" Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house 

were a tavern ; 
Open to all are its doors, and they come and go 

like the pigeons 
In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over 

the hayloft, 
Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking 

themselves in the sunshine." 

But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth 

answered : 
" All I have is the Lord's, not mine to give or 

withhold it ; 
I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those 

of his people 
Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to 

his service. 
His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I 

make them 
Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is 

given. 



ELIZABETH 215 

Therefore my excellent father first built this house 

in the clearing ; 
Though he came not himself, I came ; for the Lord 

was my guidance, 
Leading me here for this service. We must not 

grudge, then, to others 
Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall 

from our table." 

Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the peni- 
tent housemaid ; 

And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and 
softer : 

" Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May- 
Meeting in London, 

When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent 
assembly, 

Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive 
submission ? 

No one spake, till at length a young man, a stran- 
ger, John Estaugh, 

Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the 
Apostle, 

Speaking such words of power that they bowed 
our hearts, as a strong wind 

Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe 
for the sickle. 

Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne in- 
ward upon me, 

Wherefore I do not know ; but strong is the feel- 
ing within me 

That once more I shall see a face I have never 
forgotten." 



216 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

n. 
E'en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of 

sleigh-bells, 
First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the 

distance, 
Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into 

the farmyard, 
Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking 

of runners. 
Then there were voices heard as of two men talk- 
ing together, 
And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said 

Hannah the housemaid, 
" It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what 

stranger is with him." 

Down from its nail she took and lighted the 

great tin lantern 
Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the 

top of a lighthouse, 
And went forth to receive the coming guest at the 

doorway, 
Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and 

shadow 
Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the 

horses, 
And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming 

gigantic. 
Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the 

house with the stranger. 
Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow 

with the night air ; 



ELIZABETH 217 

And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to 

meet him, 
As if an unseen power had announced and pre- 
ceded his presence, 
And he had come as one whose coming had long 

been expected, 
Quietly gave him her hand, and said, " Thou art 

welcome, John Estaugh." 
And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet be- 
havior, 
" Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth ? After 

so many- 
Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing 

that I find thee. 
Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to 

thy threshold. 
For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and 

in silence 
On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the 

snow-mist, 
Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by 

the wayside 
Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered 

Queen Candace's eunuch, 
How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem 

unto Gaza, 
Heading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and 

spake unto Philip, 
Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot with 

him. 
So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge 

beside me, 
And as we talked on the way he told me of thee 

and thy homestead, 



218 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that 
never deceiveth, 

Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst 
come to this country. 

And I remembered thy name, and thy father and 
mother in England, 

And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Eliz- 
abeth Haddon, 

Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of 
love thou art doing." 

And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, 

and serenely 
Looking into his face with her innocent eyes as 

she answered, 
" Surely the hand of the Lord is in it ; his Spirit 

hath led thee 
Out of the darkness and storm to the light and 

peace of my fireside." 

* Then, with stamping of feet the door was opened, 
and Joseph 

Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blow- 
ing the light out, 

Hung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their 
supper ; 

For underneath that roof was no distinction of per- 
sons, 

But one family only, one heart, one hearth, and 
one household. 

When the supper was ended they drew theii 
chairs to the fireplace, 



ELIZABETH 219 

Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of 

firewood, 
Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of 

fagots, 
Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible 

bounty 
All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at 

winter ! 
Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing 

the table, 
Coming and going, and bustling about in closet 

and chamber. 

Then Elizabeth told her story again to John 

Estaugh, 
Going far back to the past, to the early days of 

her childhood ; 
How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts 

and besetments, 
Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet in- 
flowings 
Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative 

sounded, 
And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with 

her people 
Here in the desert land, and God would provide 

for the issue. 

Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and 

demurely 
Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence 

that followed 
Nothing was heard for a while but the step of 

Hannah the housemaid 



220 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Walking the floor overhead, and setting the cham- 
bers in order. 

And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, 
" The maiden 

Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are 
heavy and awkward." 

Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, 
and was silent. 

Then came the hour of sleep, death's counter- 
feit, nightly rehearsal 

Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of 
shadows, where no man 

Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest 
are unbroken ! 

Silently over that house the blessing of slumber 
descended. 

But when the morning dawned, and the sun up- 
rose in his splendor, 

Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered 
his path in the heavens, 

Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a 
pathway 

Through the drifts of snow; the horses already 
were harnessed, 

And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave 
at the threshold, 

Saying that he should return at the Meeting in 
May ; while above them 

Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking 
out of the attic, 

Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing 
the casement, 



ELIZABETH 221 

As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its win- 
dow, 

Then disappears again, and closes the shutter be- 
hind it. 

in. 

Now was the winter gone, and the snow ; and 
Robin the Redbreast 

Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and 
no other 

That had covered with leaves the Babes in the 
Wood, and blithely 

All the birds sang with him, and little cared for 
his boasting, 

Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, 
and only 

Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for 
the nests they were building. 

With them, but more sedately and meekly, Eliza- 
beth Haddon 

Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent 
and songless. 

Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blos- 
soms and music, 

Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with 
melodies vernal. 

Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, 
that slowly 
Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pil- 
grims, 

Line 7. Little cared for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and 
only 



222 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Men and women, wending their way to the Quar- 
terly Meeting 
In the neighboring town; and with them came 

riding John Estaugh. 
At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and 

alighting 
Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and 

the honey 
Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny 

wall of the garden ; 
Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and con- 
tinued their journey, 
And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah 

the housemaid. 
But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, 

and leaning 
Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John 

Estaugh : 
" Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell 

thee, 
Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of 

others ; 
Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it con- 

cerneth." 
And they rode slowly along through the woods, 

conversing together. 
It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the 

forest ; 
It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy 

May morning ! 

Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain 
reluctance, 



ELIZABETH 223 

A^s if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would 

have guarded : 
M I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to 

tell thee ; 
I have received from the Lord a charge to love 

thee, John Estaugh." 

And John Estaugh made answer, surprised at 

the words she had spoken, 
" Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy 

meekness of spirit ; 
Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's 

immaculate whiteness, 
Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward 

adorning. 
But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to 

direct me. 
When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and 

the labor completed 
He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the 

stillness 
Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for 

his guidance." 

Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded 
in spirit, 

w So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak 
of it further. 

It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to- 
morrow 

Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know 
not 

Line 4. And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she 
had spoken, 



224 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

When I shall see thee more ; but if the Lord hath 

decreed it, 
Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find 

me." 
And they rode onward in silence, and entered the 

town with the others. 

IV. 

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other 

in passing, 
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the 

darkness ; 
So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one 

another, 
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and 

a silence. 

Now went on as of old the quiet life of the 

homestead. 
Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all 

things 
Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of 

others, 
Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled ; and 

Hannah the housemaid 
Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and 

scouring, 
Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of 

Joseph, 
And was at times reproved for her light and frothy 

behavior, 
For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her 

evil surmisings, 



ELIZABETH 225 

jtJeing pressed down somewhat, like a cart with 

sheaves overladen, 
As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the 

Scriptures. 

Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the 
sea, and departing 

Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and pre- 
cious, 

Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming 
to him in its sweetness 

Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the 
house with its odor. 

O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting 
and waiting ! 

O lost hours and days in which we might have 
been happy ! 

But the light shone at last, and guided his waver- 
ing footsteps, 

And at last came the voice, imperative, question- 
less, certain. 

Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for 
the gift that was offered, 

Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's 
affection. 

And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the 
Silent Assembly, 

Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled 
a little, 

Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all 
things. 

Such were the marriage rites of John and Eliza- 
beth Estaugh. 



226 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the dili« 

gent servant, 
Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah 

the housemaid ; 
For when he asked her the question, she answered, 

" Nay ; " and then added : 
M But thee may make believe, and see what will 

come of it, Joseph." 



INTERLUDE. 

" A pleasant and a winsome tale," 
The Student said, " though somewhat pale 
And quiet in its coloring, 
As if it caught its tone and air 
From the gray suits that Quakers wear ; 
Yet worthy of some German bard, 
Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard, 
Who love of humble themes to sing, 
In humble verse ; but no more true 
Than was the tale I told to you." 

The Theologian made reply, 

And with some warmth, " That I deny ; 

'T is no invention of my own, 

But something well and widely known 

To readers of a riper age, 

Writ by the skilful hand that wrote 

The Indian tale of Hobomok, 

And Philothea's classic page. 

I found it like a waif afloat, 

Or dulse uprooted from its rock, 

On the swift tides that ebb and flow 









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INTERLUDE 227 

In daily papers, and at flood 
Bear freighted vessels to and fro, 
But later, when the ebb is low, 
Leave a long waste of sand and mud." 

" It matters little," quoth the Jew ; 
" The cloak of truth is lined with lies, 

Sayeth some proverb old and wise ; 

And Love is master of all arts, 

And puts it into human hearts 

The strangest things to say and do." 

And here the controversy closed 

Abruptly, ere 't was well begun ; 

For the Sicilian interposed 

With, " Lordlings, listen, every one 

That listen may, unto a tale 

That 's merrier than the nightingale ; 

A tale that cannot boast, forsooth, 

A single rag or shred of truth ; 

That does not leave the mind in doubt 

As to the with it or without ; 

A naked falsehood and absurd 

As mortal ever told or heard. 

Therefore I tell it ; or, maybe, 

Simply because it pleases me." 



228 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE. 
Finished February 9, 1873. 

Once on a time, some centuries ago, 

In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars 

Wended their weary way, with footsteps slow, 
Back to their convent, whose white walls and 
spires 

Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of snow ; 
Covered with dust they were, and torn by briers, 

And bore like sumpter-mules upon their backs 

The badge of poverty, their beggar's sacks. 

The first was Brother Anthony, a spare 

And silent man, with pallid cheeks and thin, 

Much given to vigils, penance, fasting, prayer, 
Solemn and gray, and worn with discipline, 

As if his body but white ashes were, 

Heaped on the living coals that glowed within ; 

A simple monk, like many of his day, 

Whose instinct was to listen and obey. 

A different man was Brother Timothy, 
Of larger mould and of a coarser paste ; 

A rubicund and stalwart monk was he, 

Broad in the shoulders, broader in the waist, 

Who often filled the dull refectory 

With noise by which the convent was disgraced, 

But to the mass-book gave but little heed, 

By reason he had never learned to read. 



THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGG10RE 229 

Now, as they passed the outskirts of a wood, 
They saw, with mingled pleasure and surprise, 

Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood 
Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes. 

The farmer Gilbert, of that neighborhood, 
His owner was, who, looking for supplies 

Of fagots, deeper in the wood had strayed, 

Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade. 

As soon as Brother Timothy espied 

The patient animal, he said : " Good-lack ! 

Thus for our needs doth Providence provide ; 
We '11 lay our wallets on the creature's back." 

This being done, he leisurely untied 

From head and neck the halter of the jack, 

And put it round his own, and to the tree 

Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he. 

And, bursting forth into a merry laugh, 
He cried to Brother Anthony : " Away ! 

And drive the ass before you with your staff ; 
And when you reach the convent you may say 

You left me at a farm, half tired and half 
111 with a fever, for a night and day, 

And that the farmer lent this ass to bear 

Our wallets, that are heavy with good fare." 

Now Brother Anthony, who knew the pranks 
Of Brother Timothy, would not persuade 

Or reason with him on his quirks and cranks, 
But, being obedient, silently obeyed ; 

And, smiting with his staff the ass's flanks, 
Drove him before him over hill and glade, 



230 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Safe with his provend to the convent gate, 
Leaving poor Brother Timothy to his fate. 

Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his fire, 
Forth issued from the wood, and stood aghast 

To see the ponderous body of the friar 

Standing where he had left his donkey last. 

Trembling he stood, and dared not venture nigher, 
But stared, and gaped, and crossed himself full 
fast; 

For, being credulous and of little wit, 

He thought it was some demon from the pit. 

While speechless and bewildered thus he gazed, 
And dropped his load of fagots on the ground, 

Quoth Brother Timothy : " Be not amazed 
That where you left a donkey should be found 

A poor Franciscan friar, half-starved and crazed, 
Standing demure and with a halter bound ; 

But set me free, and hear the piteous story 

Of Brother Timothy of Casal-Maggiore. 

"lama sinful man, although you see 
I wear the consecrated cowl and cape ; 

You never owned an ass, but you owned me, 
Changed and transformed from my own natural 
shape 

All for the deadly sin of gluttony, 

From which I could not otherwise escape, 

Than by this penance, dieting on grass, 

And being worked and beaten as an ass. 

" Think of the ignominy I endured ; 
Think of the miserable life I led, 



THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE 231 

The toil and blows to which I was inured, 
My wretched lodging in a windy shed, 

My scanty fare so grudgingly procured, 

The damp and musty straw that formed my 
bed! 

But, having done this, penance for my sins, ' 

My life as man and monk again begins." 

The simple Gilbert, hearing words like these, 
Was conscience-stricken, and fell down apace 

Before the friar upon his bended knees, 

And with a suppliant voice implored his grace ; 

And the good monk, now very much at ease, 
Granted him pardon with a smiling face, 

Nor could refuse to be that night his guest, 

It being late, and he in need of rest. 

Upon a hillside, where the olive thrives, 

With figures painted on its whitewashed walls, 

The cottage stood ; and near the humming hives 
Made murmurs as of far-off waterfalls ; 

A place where those who love secluded lives 

Might live content, and, free from noise and 
brawls, 

Like Claudian's Old Man of Verona here 

Measure by fruits the slow-revolving year. 

And, coming to this cottage of content, 

They found his children, and the buxom wench 

His wife, Dame Cicely, and his father, bent 
With years and labor, seated on a bench, 

Repeating over some obscure event 

In the old wars of Milanese and French ; 



232 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

All welcomed the Franciscan, with a sense 
Of sacred awe and humble reverence. 

When Gilbert told them what had come to pass, 
How beyond question, cavil, or surmise, 

Good Brother Timothy had been their ass, 

You should have seen the wonder in their 
eyes; 

You should have heard them cry " Alas ! alas ! " 
Have heard their lamentations and their sighs ! 

For all believed the story, and began 

To see a saint in this afflicted man. 

Forthwith there was prepared a grand repast, 

To satisfy the craving of the friar 
After so rigid and prolonged a fast ; 

The bustling housewife stirred the kitchen fire ; 
Then her two barn-yard fowls, her best and last 

Were put to death, at her express desire, 
And served up with a salad in a bowl, 
And flasks of country wine to crown the whole. 

It would not be believed should I repeat 
How hungry Brother Timothy appeared ; 

It was a pleasure but to see him eat, 

His white teeth flashing through his russet 
beard, 

His face aglow and flushed with wine and meat, 
His roguish eyes that rolled and laughed and 
leered ! 

Lord ! how he drank the blood-red country wine 

As if the village vintage were divine ! 

Line 15. Then her two favorite pullets and her last 



THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE 233 

And all the while he talked without surcease, 
And told his merry tales with jovial glee 

That never flagged, but rather did increase, 
And laughed aloud as if insane were he, 

And wagged his red beard, matted like a fleece, 
And cast such glances at Dame Cicely 

That Gilbert now grew angry with his guest, 

And thus in words his rising wrath expressed. 

" Good father," said he, " easily we see 

How needful in some persons, and how right, 

Mortification of the flesh may be. 

The indulgence you have given it to-night, 

After long penance, clearly proves to me 

Your strength against temptation is but slight, 

And shows the dreadful peril you are in 

Of a relapse into your deadly sin. 

" To-morrow morning, with the rising sun, 
Go back unto your convent, nor refrain 

From fasting and from scourging, for you run 
Great danger to become an ass again, 

Since monkish flesh and asinine are one ; 
Therefore be wise, nor longer here remain, 

Unless you wish the scourge should be applied 

By other hands, that will not spare your hide. ,, 

When this the monk had heard, his color fled 
And then returned, like lightning in the air, 

Till he was all one blush from foot to head, 
And even the bald spot in his russet hair 

Turned from its usual pallor to bright red ! 
The old man was asleep upon his chair. 



234 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Then all retired, and sank into the deep 
And helpless imbecility of sleep. 

They slept until the dawn of day drew near, 

Till the cock should have crowed, but did not 
crow, 

For they had slain the shining chanticleer 
And eaten him for supper, as you know. 

The monk was up betimes and of good cheer, 
And, having breakfasted, made haste to go, 

As if he heard the distant matin bell, 

And had but little time to say farewell. 

Fresh was the morning as the breath of kine ; 

Odors of herbs commingled with the sweet 
Balsamic exhalations of the pine ; 

A haze was in the air presaging heat ; 
Uprose the sun above the Apennine, 

And all the misty valleys at its feet 
Were full of the delirious song of birds, 
Voices of men, and bells, and low of herds. 

All this to Brother Timothy was naught ; 

He did not care for scenery, nor here 
His busy fancy found the thing it sought ; 

But when he saw the convent walls appear, 
And smoke from kitchen chimneys upward caught 

And whirled aloft into the atmosphere, 
He quickened his slow footsteps, like a beast 
That scents the stable a league off at least. 

And as he entered through the convent gate 
He saw there in the court the ass, who stood 



THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE 235 

Twirling his ears about, and seemed to wait, 
Just as he found him waiting in the wood ; 

And told the Prior that, to alleviate 
The daily labors of the brotherhood, 

The owner, being a man of means and thrift, 

Bestowed him on the convent as a gift. 

And thereupon the Prior for many days 
Kevolved this serious matter in his mind, 

And turned it over many different ways, 
Hoping that some safe issue he might find ; 

But stood in fear of what the world would say, 
If he accepted presents of this kind, 

Employing beasts of burden for the packs 

That lazy monks should carry on their backs. 

Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort, 
And stop the mouth of cavil, he decreed 

That he would cut the tedious matter short, 
And sell the ass with all convenient speed, 

Thus saving the expense of his support, 

And hoarding something for a time of need. 

So he despatched him to the neighboring Fair, 

And freed himself from cumber and from care. 

It happened now by chance, as some might say, 
Others perhaps would call it destiny, 

Gilbert was at the Fair ; and heard a bray, 
And nearer came, and saw that it was he, 

And whispered in his ear, " Ah, lackaday ! 
Good father, the rebellious flesh, I see, 

Has changed you back into an ass again, 

A-nd all my admonitions were in vain." 



236 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The ass, who felt this breathing in his ear, 

Did not turn round to look, but shook his head, 

As if he were not pleased these words to hear, 
And contradicted all that had been said. 

And this made Gilbert cry in voice more clear, 
" I know you well ; your hair is russet-red ; 

Do not deny it ; for you are the same 

Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name." 

The ass, though now the secret had come out, 
Was obstinate, and shook his head again ; 

Until a crowd was gathered round about 
To hear this dialogue between the twain ; 

And raised their voices in a noisy shout 

When Gilbert tried to make the matter plain, 

And flouted him and mocked him all day long 

With laughter and with jibes and scraps of song. 

" If this be Brother Timothy," they cried, 

" Buy him, and feed him on the tenderest grass ; 

Thou canst not do too much for one so tried 
As to be twice transformed into an ass." 

So simple Gilbert bought him, and untied 
His halter, and o'er mountain and morass 

He led him homeward, talking as he went 

Of good behavior and a mind content. 

The children saw them coming, and advanced, 
Shouting with joy, and hung about his neck, — 

Not Gilbert's, but the ass's, — round him danced, 
And wove green garlands wherewithal to deck 

His sacred person ; for again it chanced 

Their childish feelings, without rein or check, 



THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE 237 

Could not discriminate in any way 

A donkey from a friar of Orders Gray. 

" Brother Timothy," the children said, 
" You have come back to us just as before ; 

We were afraid, and thought that you were dead 9 
And we should never see you any more." 

And then they kissed the white star on his head, 
That like a birth-mark or a badge he wore, 

And patted him upon the neck and face, 

And said a thousand things with childish grace. 

Thenceforward and forever he was known 
As Brother Timothy, and led alway 

A life of luxury, till he had grown 

Ungrateful, being stuffed with corn and hay, 

And very vicious. Then in angry tone, 

Housing himself, poor Gilbert said one day, 

" When simple kindness is misunderstood 

A little flagellation may do good." 

His many vices need not here be told ; 

Among them was a habit that he had 
Of flinging up his heels at young and old, 

Breaking his halter, running off like mad 
O'er pasture-lands and meadow, wood and wold, 

And other misdemeanors quite as bad ; 
But worst of all was breaking from his shed 
At night, and ravaging the cabbage-bed. 

So Brother Timothy went back once more 
To his old life of labor and distress ; 

Was beaten worse than he had been before ; 
And now, instead of comfort and caress, 



238 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Came labors manifold and trials sore ; 

And as his toils increased his food grew less^ 
Until at last the great consoler, Death, 
Ended his many sufferings with his breath. 

Great was the lamentation when he died ; 

And mainly that he died impenitent ; 
Dame Cicely bewailed, the children cried, 

The old man still remembered the event 
In the French war, and Gilbert magnified 

His many virtues, as he came and went, 
And said : " Heaven pardon Brother Timothy, 
And keep us from the sin of gluttony.' ' 

INTERLUDE. 

" Signor Luigi," said the Jew, 
When the Sicilian's tale was told, 

*' The were-wolf is a legend old, 
But the were-ass is something new, 
And yet for one I think it true. 
The days of wonder have not ceased ; 
If there are beasts in forms of men, 
As sure it happens now and then, 
Why may not man become a beast, 
In way of punishment at least ? 

44 But this I will not now discuss ; 
1 leave the theme, that we may thus 
Remain within the realm of song. 
The story that I told before, 
Though not acceptable to all, 
At least you did not find too long. 
I beg you, let me try again, 



SCANBERBEG 239 

With something in a different vein, 
Before you bid the curtain fall. 
Meanwhile keep watch upon the door, 
Nor let the Landlord leave his chair, 
Lest he should vanish into air, 
And so elude our search once more." 

Thus saying, from his lips he blew 
A little cloud of perfumed breath, 
And then, as if it were a clew 
To lead his footsteps safely through, 
Began his tale as followeth. 



THE SPANISH JEW'S SECOND TALE. 

SCANDERBEG. 
Written February 4, 1873. 

The battle is fought and won 
By King Ladislaus, the Hun, 
In fire of hell and death's frost, 
On the day of Pentecost. 
And in rout before his path 
From the field of battle red 
Flee all that are not dead 
Of the army of Amurath. 

In the darkness of the night 
Iskander, the pride and boast 
Of that mighty Othman host, 
With his routed Turks, takes flight 
From the battle fought and lost 
On the day of Pentecost ; 



240 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Leaving behind him dead 

The army of Amurath, 

The vanguard as it led, 

The rearguard as it fled, 

Mown down in the bloody swath 

Of the battle's aftermath. 

But he cared not for Hospodars, 
Nor for Baron or Voivode, 
As on through the night he rode 
And gazed at the fateful stars, 
That were shining overhead ; 
But smote his steed with his staff, 
And smiled to himself, and said : 
"This is the time to laugh." 

In the middle of the night, 
In a halt of the hurrying flight, 
There came a Scribe of the King 
Wearing his signet ring, 
And said in a voice severe : 
"This is the first dark blot 
On thy name, George Castriot ! 
Alas ! why art thou here, 
And the army of Amurath slain, 
And left on the battle plain ? " 

And Iskander answered and saids 
w They lie on the bloody sod 
By the hoofs of horses trod ; 
But this was the decree 
Of the watchers overhead ; 
For the war belongeth to God, 



SCANDERBEG 241 

And in battle who are we, 

Who are we, that shall withstand 

The wind of his lifted hand? " 

Then he bade them bind with chains 
This man of books and brains ; 
And the Scribe said : " What misdeed 
Have I done, that, without need, 
Thou doest to me this thing ? " 
And Iskander answering 
Said unto him : " Not one 
Misdeed to me hast thou done ; 
But for fear that thou shouldst run 
And hide thyself from me, 
Have I done this unto thee. 

54 Now write me a writing, O Scribe, 
And a blessing be on thy tribe ! 
A writing sealed with thy ring, 
To King Amurath's Pasha 
In the city of Croia, 
The city moated and walled, 
That he surrender the same 
In the name of my master, the King | 
For what is writ in his name 
Can never be recalled." 

And the Scribe bowed low in dread. 
And unto Iskander said : 
44 Allah is great and just, 
But we are as ashes and dust ; 
How shall I do this thing, 
When I know that my guilty head 
Will be forfeit to the King ? " 



242 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Then swift as a shooting star 

The curved and shining blade 

Of Iskander's scimetar 

From its sheath, with jewels bright, 

Shot, as he thundered : " Write ! " 

And the trembling Scribe obeyed, 

And wrote in the fitful glare 

Of the bivouac fire apart, 

With the chill of the midnight air 

On his forehead white and bare, 

And the chill of death in his heart. 

Then again Iskander cried : 
44 Now follow whither I ride, 
For here thou must not stay. 
Thou shalt be as my dearest friend. 
And honors without end 
Shall surround thee on every side, 
And attend thee night and day." 
But the sullen Scribe replied : 
*' Our pathways here divide ; 
Mine leadeth not thy way." 

And even as he spoke 

Fell a sudden scimetar stroke, 

When no one else was near ; 

And the Scribe sank to the ground, 

As a stone, pushed from the brink 

Of a black pool, might sink 

With a sob and disappear ; 

And no one saw the deed ; 

And in the stillness around 

No sound was heard but the sound 



SCANDERBEG 243 

Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed, 
As forward he sprang with a bound. 

Then onward he rode and afar, 
With scarce three hundred men, 
Through river and forest and fen, 
O'er the mountains of Argentar ; 
And his heart was merry within, 
When he crossed the river Drin, 
And saw in the gleam of the morn 
The White Castle Ak-Hissar, 
The city Croia called, 
The city moated and walled, 
The city where he was born, — 
And above it the morning star. 

Then his trumpeters in the van 
On their silver bugles blew, 
And in crowds about him ran 
Albanian and Turkoman, 
That the sound together drew. 
And he feasted with his friends, 
And when they were warm with wine, 
He said : " O friends of mine, 
Behold what fortune sends, 
And what the fates design! 
King Amurath commands 
That my father's wide domain, 
This city and all its lands, 
Shall be given to me again." 

Then to the Castle White 
He rode in regal state, 



244 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

And entered in at the gate 
In all his arms bedight, 
And gave to the Pasha 
Who ruled in Croia 
The writing of the King, 
Sealed with his signet ring. 
And the Pasha bowed his head, 
And after a silence said : 
" Allah is just and great ! 
I yield to the will divine, 
The city and lands are thine ; 
Who shall contend with fate ? " 

Anon from the castle walls 

The crescent banner falls, 

And the crowd beholds instead, 

Like a portent in the sky, 

Iskander's banner fly, 

The Black Eagle with double head ; 

And a shout ascends on high, 

For men's souls are tired of the Turks s 

And their wicked ways and works, 

That have made of Ak-Hissar 

A city of the plague ; 

And the loud, exultant cry 

That echoes wide and far 

Is : " Long live Scanderbeg ! " 

It was thus Iskander came 
Once more unto his own : 
And the tidings, like the flame 
Of a conflagration blown 
By the winds of summer, ran, 



INTERLUDE 245 

Till the land was in a blaze, 
And the cities far and near, 
Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, 
In his Book of the Words of the Days, 
" Were taken as a man 
Would take the tip of his ear." 

INTERLUDE. 

" Now that is after my own heart," 
The Poet cried ; " one understands 
Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, 
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, 
And skilled in every warlike art, 
Riding through his Albanian lands, 
And following the auspicious star 
That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar." 

The Theologian added here 
His word of praise not less sincere, 
Although he ended with a jibe ; 
" The hero of romance and song 
Was born," he said, " to right the wrong; 
And I approve ; but all the same 
That bit of treason with the Scribe 
Adds nothing to your hero's fame." 

The Student praised the good old times, 
And liked the canter of the rhymes, 
That had a hoofbeat in their sound ; 
But longed some further word to hear 
Of the old chronicler Ben Meir, 
And where his volume might be found. 



246 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

The tall Musician walked the room 
With folded arms and gleaming eyes, 
As if he saw the Vikings rise, 
Gigantic shadows in the gloom ; 
And much he talked of their emprise, 
And meteors seen in Northern skies, 
And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom 
But the Sicilian laughed again ; 
" This is the time to laugh," he said, 
For the whole story he well knew 
Was an invention of the Jew, 
Spun from the cobwebs in his brain, 
And of the same bright scarlet thread 
As was the Tale of Kambalu. 

Only the Landlord spake no word ; 
'T was doubtful whether he had heard 
The tale at all, so full of care 
Was he of his impending fate, 
That, like the sword of Damocles, 
Above his head hung blank and bare, 
Suspended by a single hair, 
So that he could not sit at ease, 
But sighed and looked disconsolate, 
And shifted restless in his chair, 
Revolving how he might evade 
The blow of the descending blade. 

The Student came to his relief 
By saying in his easy way 
To the Musician : " Calm your grief, 
My fair Apollo of the North, 
Balder the Beautiful and so forth ; 



INTERLUDE 247 

Although your magic lyre or lute 
With broken strings is lying mute, 
Still you can tell some doleful tale 
Of shipwreck in a midnight gale, 
Or something of the kind to suit 
The mood that we are in to-night 
For what is marvellous and strange ; 
So give your nimble fancy range, 
And we will follow in its flight." 

But the Musician shook his head ; 
" No tale I tell to-night," he said, 
" While my poor instrument lies there, 

Even as a child with vacant stare 

Lies in its little coffin dead." 

Yet, being urged, he said at last : 
" There comes to me out of the Past 
A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, 
Singing a song almost divine, 
And with a tear in every line ; 
An ancient ballad, that my nurse 
Sang to me when I was a child, 
In accents tender as the verse ; 
And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled 
While singing it, to see arise 
The look of wonder in my eyes, 
And feel my heart with terror beat. 
This simple ballad I retain 
Clearly imprinted on my brain, 
And as a tale will now repeat." 



248 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 

THE MOTHER'S GHOST. 
Written March 26, 1873. 

Svend Dyking he rideth adown the glade ; 

/ myself was young ! 
There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid ; 

Fair words gladden so many a heart. 

Together were they for seven years, 
And together children six were theirs. 

Then came Death abroad through the land, 
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand. 

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, 
And again hath he wooed him another maid. 

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a 

bride, 
But she was bitter and full of pride. 

"When she came driving into the yard, 
There stood the six children weeping so hard. 

There stood the small children with sorrowful 

heart ; 
From before her feet she thrust them apart. 

She gave to them neither ale nor bread ; 
4< Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said. 



THE MOTHER'S GHOST 249 

She took from them their quilts of blue, 

And said : " Ye shall lie on the straw we strew." 

She took from them the great waxlight : 
" Now ye shall lie in the dark at night." 

In the evening late they cried with cold ; 
The mother heard it under the mould. 

The woman heard it the earth below : 
" To my little children I must go." 

She standeth before the Lord of all : 
" And may I go to my children small ? " 

She prayed him so long, and would not cease, 
Until he bade her depart in peace. 

" At cock-crow thou shalt return again ; 
Longer thou shalt not there remain ! " 

She girded up her sorrowful bones, 

And rifted the walls and the marble stones. 

As through the village she flitted by, 
The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky. 

When she came to the castle gate, 
There stood her eldest daughter in wait. 

"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine? 
How fares it with brothers and sisters thine ? " 



250 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

" Never art thou mother of mine, 
For my mother was both fair and fine. 

" My mother was white, with cheeks of red, 
But thou art pale, and like to the dead." 

" How should I be fair and fine ? 

I have been dead ; pale cheeks are mine. 

" How should I be white and red, 
So long, so long have I been dead ? " 

When she came in at the chamber door, 
There stood the small children weeping sore. 

One she braided, another she brushed, 
The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed. 

The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, 
As if she would suckle it at her breast. 

Then to her eldest daughter said she, 

" Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me. 

Into the chamber when he came 

She spake to him in anger and shame. 

" I left behind me both ale and bread ; 
My children hunger and are not fed. 

" I left behind me quilts of blue ; 
My children lie on the straw ye strew. 



INTERLUDE 251 

" I left behind me the great waxlight ; 
My children lie in the dark at night. 

" If I come again unto your hall, 
As cruel a fate shall you befall ! 

" Now crows the cock with feathers red ; 
Back to the earth must all the dead. 

" Now crows the cock with feathers swart ; 
The gates of heaven fly wide apart. 

w Now crows the cock with feathers white ; 
I can abide no longer to-night." 

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, 
They gave the children bread and ale. 

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, 
They feared lest the dead were on their way. 

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark, 

/ myself was young ! 
They feared the dead out there in the dark. 

Fair words gladden so many a heart* 



INTERLUDE. 

Touched by the pathos of these rhymes, 
The Theologian said : " All praise 
Be to the ballads of old times 
And to the bards of simple ways, 
Who walked with Nature hand in hand, 
Whose country was their Holy Land, 



252 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Whose singing robes were homespun brown 
From looms of their own native town, 
Which they were not ashamed to wear, 
And not of silk or sendal gay, 
Nor decked with fanciful array 
Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer." 

To whom the Student answered : " Yes ; 

All praise and honor ! I confess 

That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed, 

Are wholesome and nutritious food, 

But not enough for all our needs ; 

Poets — the best of them — are birds 

Of passage ; where their instinct leads 

They range abroad for thoughts and words, 

And from all climes bring home the seeds 

That germinate in flowers or weeds. 

They are not fowls in barnyards born 

To cackle o'er a grain of corn ; 

And, if you shut the horizon down 

To the small limits of their town, 

What do you but degrade your bard 

Till he at last becomes as one 

Who thinks the all-encircling sun 

Bises and sets in his back yard ? " 

The Theologian said again : 
" It may be so ; yet I maintain 
That what is native still is best, 
And little care I for the rest. 
'T is a long story ; time would fail 
To tell it, and the hour is late ; 
We will not waste it in debate, 
But listen to our Landlord's tale." 



THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER 253 

And thus the sword of Damocles 
Descending not by slow degrees, 
But suddenly, on the Landlord fell, 
Who blushing, and with much demur 
And many vain apologies, 
Plucking up heart, began to tell 
The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher. 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 

THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER. 
Written February 25, 1873. 

It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 
From Merry England over the sea, 
Who stepped upon this continent 
As if his august presence lent 
A glory to the colony. 

You should have seen him in the street 
Of the little Boston of Winthrop's time, 
His rapier dangling at his feet, 
Doublet and hose and boots complete, 
Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume, 
Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume, 
Luxuriant curls and air sublime, 
And superior manners now obsolete ! 

He had a way of saying things 
That made one think of courts and kings, 
And lords and ladies of high degree ; 
So that not having been at court 



254 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Seemed something very little short 

Of treason or lese-majesty, 

Such an accomplished knight was he. 

His dwelling was just beyond the town, 
At what he called his country-seat ; 
For, careless of Fortune's smile or frown, 
And weary grown of the world and its ways, 
He wished to pass the rest of his days 
In a private life and a calm retreat. 

But a double life was the life he led, 
And, while professing to be in search 
Of a godly course, and willing, he said, 
Nay, anxious to join the Puritan church, 
He made of all this but small account, 
And passed his idle hours instead 
With roystering Morton of Merry Mount, 
That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn, 
Lord of misrule and riot and sin, 
Who looked on the wine when it was red. 

This country-seat was little more 

Than a cabin of logs ; but in front of the door 

A modest flower-bed thickly sown 

With sweet alyssum and columbine 

Made those who saw it at once divine 

The touch of some other hand than his own. 

And first it was whispered, and then it was known, 

That he in secret was harboring there • 

A little lady with golden hair, 

Whom he called his cousin, but whom he had wed 

In the Italian manner, as men said, 

And great was the scandal everywhere. 



THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER 255 

But worse than this was the vague surmise, 

Though none could vouch for it or aver, 

That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre 

Was only a Papist in disguise ; 

And the more to imbitter their bitter lives, 

And the more to trouble the public mind, 

Came letters from England, from two other wives^ 

Whom he had carelessty left behind ; 

Both of them letters of such a kind 

As made the governor hold his breath ; 

The one imploring him straight to send 

The husband home, that he might amend ; 

The other asking his instant death, 

As the only way to make an end. 

The wary governor deemed it right, 
When all this wickedness was revealed, 
To send his warrant signed and sealed, 
And take the body of the knight. 
Armed with this mighty instrument, 
The marshal, mounting his gallant steed, 
Rode forth from town at the top of his speed, 
And followed by all his bailiffs bold, 
As if on high achievement bent, 
To storm some castle or stronghold, 
Challenge the warders on the wall, 
And seize in his ancestral hall 
A robber-baron grim and old. 

But when through all the dust and heat 
He came to Sir Christopher's country-seat, 
No knight he found, nor warder there, 
But the little lady with golden hair, 



256 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Who was gathering in the bright sunshine 
The sweet alyssum and columbine ; 
While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay, 
Being forewarned, through the postern gate 
Of his castle wall had tripped away, 
And was keeping a little holiday 
, In the forests, that bounded his estate. 

Then as a trusty squire and true 
The marshal searched the castle through, 
Not crediting what the lady said ; 
Searched from cellar to garret in vain, 
And, finding no knight, came out again 
And arrested the golden damsel instead, 
And bore her in triumph into the town, 
While from her eyes the tears rolled down 
On the sweet alyssum and columbine, 
That she held in her fingers white and fine. 

The governor's heart was moved to see 

So fair a creature caught within 

The snares of Satan and of sin, 

And he read her a little homily 

On the folly and wickedness of the lives 

Of women half cousins and half wives ; 

But, seeing that naught his words availed, 

He sent her away in a ship that sailed 

For Merry England over the sea, 

To the other two wives in the old countree, 

To search her further, since he had failed 

To come at the heart of the mystery. 

Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered away 
Through pathless woods for a month and a day, 



THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER 257 

Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night 

With the noble savage, who took delight 

In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, 

His gun and his rapier and the rest. 

But as soon as the noble savage heard 

That a bounty was offered for this gay bird, 

He wanted to slay him out of hand, 

And bring in his beautiful scalp for a show, 

Like the glossy head of a kite or crow, 

Until he was made to understand 

They wanted the bird alive, not dead ; 

Then he followed him whithersoever he fled, 

Through forest and field, and hunted him down, 

And brought him prisoner into the town. 

Alas ! it was a rueful sight, 

To see this melancholy knight 

In such a dismal and hapless case ; 

His hat deformed by stain and dent, 

His plumage broken, his doublet rent, 

His beard and flowing locks forlorn, 

Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn, 

His boots with dust and mire besprent 5 

But dignified in his disgrace, 

And wearing an unblushing face. 

And thus before the magistrate 

He stood to hear the doom of fate. 

In vain he strove with wonted ease 

To modify and extenuate 

His evil deeds in church and state, 

For gone was now his power to please ; 

And his pompous words had no more weight 

Than feathers flying in the breeze. 



258 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

With suavity equal to his own 

The governor lent a patient ear 

To the speech evasive and high-flown, 

In which he endeavored to make clear 

That colonial laws were too severe 

When applied to a gallant cavalier, 

A gentleman born, and so well known, 

And accustomed to move in a higher sphere. 

All this the Puritan governor heard, 
And deigned in answer never a word ; 
But in summary manner shipped away, 
In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay, 
This splendid and famous cavalier, 
With his Eupert hat and his popery, 
To Merry England over the sea, 
As being unmeet to inhabit here. 

Thus endeth the Ehyme of Sir Christopher, 
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 
The first who furnished this barren land 
With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand. 



FINALE. 

Written February 27, 1873. 

These are the tales those merry guests 
Told to each other, well or ill ; 
Like summer birds that lift their crests 
Above the borders of their nests 
And twitter, and again are still. 



FINALE 259 

These are the tales, or new or old, 
In idle moments idly told ; 
Flowers of the field with petals thin, 
Lilies that neither toil nor spin, 
And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse 
Hung in the parlor of the inn 
Beneath the sign of the Eed Horse. 

And still, reluctant to retire, 

The friends sat talking by the fire 

And watched the smouldering embers burn 

To ashes, and flash up again 

Into a momentary glow, 

Lingering like them when forced to go, 

And going when they would remain ; 

For on the morrow they must turn 

Their faces homeward, and the pain 

Of parting touched with its unrest 

A tender nerve in every breast. 

But sleep at last the victory won ; 
They must be stirring with the sun, 
And drowsily good night they said, 
And went still gossiping to bed, 
And left the parlor wrapped in gloom. 
The only live thing in the room 
Was the old clock, that in its pace 
Kept time with the revolving spheres 
And constellations in their flight, 
And struck with its uplifted mace 
The dark, unconscious hours of night, 
To senseless and unlistening ears. 



260 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Uprose the sun ; and every guest, 
Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed 
For journeying home and city- ward ; 
The old stage-coach was at the door, 
With horses harnessed, long before 
The sunshine reached the withered sward 
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar 
Murmured : " Farewell forevermore." 

*' Farewell ! " the portly Landlord cried ; 

" Farewell ! " the parting guests replied, 
But little thought that nevermore 
Their feet would pass that threshold o'er ; 
That nevermore together there 
Would they assemble, free from care, 
To hear the oaks' mysterious roar, 
And breathe the wholesome country air. 

Where are they now? What lands and skies 
Paint pictures in their friendly eyes ? 
What hope deludes, what promise cheers, 
What pleasant voices fill their ears ? 
Two are beyond the salt sea waves, 
And three already in their graves. 
Perchance the living still may look 
Into the pages of this book, 
And see the days of long ago 
Floating and fleeting to and fro, 
As in the well-remembered brook 
They saw the inverted landscape gleam, 
And their own faces like a dream 
Look up upon them from below. 




THE OAKS 

" To hear the oaks' mysterious roar, 
And breathe the wholesome country air.' 



NOTES 

Page 15. 

As ancient is this hostelry 
As any in the land may be. 
[The inscription on the old tavern sign, D. H. 1686, indi- 
cated probably the name of D. Howe, first landlord of the 
Wayside Inn, and a further inscription on the sign gave 
E. H. (Ezekiel Howe), 1746, and A. Howe, 1796.] 
Page 17. 

Writ near a century ago 
By the great Major Molineaux 
Whom Hawthorne has immortal made* 
[The lines are as follows : — 

What do you think? 
Here is good drink, 
Perhaps you may not know it; 
If not in haste, 
Do stop and taste ! 
You merry folk will show it. 

On another pane appears the Major's name, Wm. Molineux 
Jr. Esq., and the date, June 24, 1774. The allusion is to 
Hawthorne's tale, My Kinsman, Major Molineux. Haw- 
thorne, writing to Mr. Longfellow after the publication of 
the Tales, says, " It gratifies my mind to find my own name 
shining in your verse, — even as if I had been gazing up 
at the moon and detected my own features in its profile."] 

Page 25. The midnight ride of Paul Revere. 

[It is possible that Mr. Longfellow derived the story from 
Paul Revere's account of the incident in a letter to Dr. 
Jeremy Belknap, printed in Mass. His. Coll. v. Mr. Froth- 
ingham, in his Siege of Boston, pp. 57-59, gives the story 
mainly according to a memorandum of Richard Devens, Re- 
vere's friend and associate. The publication of Mr. Long- 



262 NOTES 

fellow's poem called out a protracted discussion both as to 
the church from which the signals were hung, and as to the 
friend who hung the lanterns. The subject is discussed and 
authorities cited in Memorial History of Boston, III. 101.] 

Page 32. The Falcon of Ser Federigo. 

[The story is found in the Decameron, Fifth day, ninth 
tale. As Boccaccio, however, was not the first to tell it, so 
Mr. Longfellow is not the only one after him to repeat it. 
So remote a source as Pantschatantra (Benfey, II. 247) con- 
tains it, and La Fontaine includes it in his Contes et Nouvelles 
under the title of Le Faucon. Tennyson has treated the 
subject dramatically in The Falcon. See also Delisle de la 
Drevetiere, who turned Boccaccio's story into a comedy in 
three acts.] 

Page 42. The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi. 

[Varnhagen refers to three several sources of this legend 
in the books Col Bo, Ben Sira, and Ketuboih, but it is most 
likely that Mr. Longfellow was indebted for the story to his 
friend Emmanuel Vitalis Scherb.] 

Page 46. King Robert of Sicily. 

[This story is one of very wide distribution. It is given 
in Gesta Romanorum as the story of Jovinian. Frere in his 
Old Deccan Days, or Hindoo Fairy Legends current in South- 
ern India, recites it in the form of The Wanderings of Vi- 
cram Maharajah. Varnhagen pursues the legend through a 
great variety of forms. Leigh Hunt, among moderns, has 
told the story in A Jar of Honey from Mt. Hybla, from 
which source Mr. Longfellow seems to have drawn. Dante 
refers to the King in Paradiso, Canto VIIL] 

Page 120. The Birds of Killingworth. 

[Killingworth in Connecticut was named from the English 
town Kenilworth in Warwickshire, and had the same orthog- 
raphy in the early records, but was afterwards corrupted 
into its present form. Sixty or seventy years ago, according 
to Mr. Henry Hull, writing from personal recollection, " the 
men of the northern part of the town did yearly in the spring 
choose two leaders, and then the two sides were formed : the 
side that got beaten should pay the bills. Their special game 
was the hawk, the owl, the crow, the blackbird, and any 



NOTES 263 

other bird supposed to be mischievous to the corn. Some 
years each side would bring them in by the bushel. This 
was followed up for only a few years, for the birds began to 
grow scarce." The story, based upon some such slight sug- 
gestion, was Mr. Longfellow's own invention.] 

Page 135. The Bell of Atri. 

[See Gualteruzzi's Cento Novelle Antiche."] 

Page 141. Kambalu. 

[See Boni's edition of II Milione di Marco Polo, II. 35 and 
1. 14.] 

Page 147. Our ingress into the world. 

[The lines quoted by the Cobbler are to be found in The 
Eccentricities of John Edwin, Comedian, arranged and di- 
gested by Anthony Pasquin [John Williams], 1791. Tradi- 
tion also refers them to Benjamin Franklin, with whose phi- 
losophy and form of expression they certainly agree, but in 
the absence of other evidence it is to be presumed that 
Franklin quoted from Edwin. The story of the Cobbler 
was derived from D'Aubignd's History of the Reformation, 
I. 220.] 

Page 166. Lady Wentworth. 

[The incidents of this tale are recounted by C. W. Brews- 
ter, Rambles about Portsmouth, I. 101. After the publication 
of Mr. Longfellow's poem, Mr. Thomas Wentworth Higgin- 
son wrote to one of Mr. Longfellow's kinsmen a version of 
the story sent him by Mrs. Mary Anne Williams, who had 
the story from her grandmother, nee Mary Wentworth, who 
was niece to Governor Wentworth, and a child at the time 
of the incident. "I have seen Mr. Longfellow's poem," 
writes Mrs. Williams, "but I should think he would be 
afraid some of the old fellows would appear to him for 
making it appear that any others than the family were 
present to witness what they considered a great degradation. 
Only the brothers and brothers in law were present, and 
Mr. Brown ; and the bride, who had been his housekeeper 
for seven years, was then 35, and attired in a calico dress 
and white apron. The family stood in wholesome awe of 
the sturdy old governor, so treated Patty with civility, but 
it was hard work for the stately old dames, and she was 



264 NOTES 

dropped after his death." Governor Wentworth was born 
July 24, 1696, and his marriage was on March 15, 1760.] 

Page 179. The Baron of St. Castine. 

[" About the time the treaty of Breda was ratified, A. D. 
1667, Mons. Vincent de St. Castine appeared among the 
Tarratines, and settled upon the peninsula since called by 
his name. Born at Oleron, a province of France, he ac- 
quired an early taste for rural scenes, so fully enjoyed by 
him in the borders of the Pyrenean Mountains, which en- 
compassed the place of his nativity. Besides the advantages 
of illustrious connections and noble extraction, being by birth 
and title a baron, he was endued with good abilities and 
favored with a competent education and a considerable 
knowledge of military arts, for which he had a partiality. 
All these obtained for him the appointment of colonel in 
the king's body-guards, from which office he was transferred 
to the command of a regiment called the ' Carignan Sa- 
lieres.' Afterwards, through the influence of M. de Cour- 
celles, Governor-general of New France, the Baron and his 
troops were, about 1665, removed to Quebec. At the close 
of the war, the regiment was disbanded, and himself dis- 
charged from the king's service. Taking umbrage proba- 
bly at the treatment he received, and actuated by motives 
never fully divulged, ' he,' as La Hontan says, ' threw him- 
self upon the savages.' To French writers his conduct was 
a mystery, and to the colonists a prodigy. 

" His settled abode was upon the peninsula where d'Aul- 
ney had resided, and where he found means to construct a 
commodious house for trade and habitancy. He was a lib- 
eral Catholic, though devout and punctilious in his religious 
observances ; having usually in his train several Jesuit mis- 
sionaries devoted to the ' holy cause.' He learned to speak 
with ease the Indian dialect ; and supplying himself with 
firearms, ammunition, blankets, steel traps, baubles, and a 
thousand other things desired by the natives, he made them 
presents, and opened a valuable trade with them in these ar- 
ticles, for which he received furs and peltry in return, at his 
own prices. He taught the men the use of the gun, and 
some arts of war ; and being a man of fascinating address 



NOTES 265 

and manners, he attained a complete ascendancy over the 
whole tribe ; they looking upon him, in the language of one 
writer, ' as their tutelar god.' 

" To chain their attachments by ties not readily broken, 
in connection with personal gratification, he took four or five 
Tarratine wives, — one of them the daughter of Madocka- 
wando, Sagamore of the tribe. He lived with them all by 
changes, at the same time, and had ' several daughters and 
one son, Castine the younger, who was a man of distinction 
and of excellent character. Early habits and great success 
in trade rendered the father contented with his allotments ; 
he lived in the country about thirty years ; and, as Abbe* 
Raynal says, ' conformed himself in all respects to the man- 
ners and customs of the natives.' To his daughters, whom 
'he married very handsomely to Frenchmen,' he gave lib- 
eral portions ; having amassed a property [ worth three hun- 
dred thousand crowns.' The Governors of New-England 
and of Canada, apprised of his influence, wealth and mili- 
tary knowledge, were for obvious reasons the courtiers of 
his friendship and favor." — Williamson, The History of 
Maine, I. 471, 472. 

The Abbe' Raynal, who is one of Williamson's authorities, 
asserts that Castine never changed his wife, to convince the 
savages " that God doth not like inconstant folks." Some 
remains of the fortifications of the Baron's trading-post may 
still be seen on the shore in the town of Castine. The 
scenes in France, it may be added, are purely imaginary.] 

Page 197. Charlemagne. 

[In his diary, under date of May 12, 1872, Mr. Longfel- 
low writes : " Wrote a short poem on Charlemagne from a 
story in an old chronicle, De Factis Caroli Magni, quoted by 
Cantii, Storia degli Italiani, II. 122. I first heard it from 
Charles Perkins, in one of his lectures."] 

Page 211. Elizabeth. 

[As intimated in the Interlude which follows, the tale of 
Elizabeth was founded on a prose tale by Mrs. Lydia Maria 
Child, entitled The Youthful Emigrant, which fell under Mr. 
Longfellow's eye in a Portland paper. Besides this, he had 
recourse to A Call to the Unfaithful Professors of Truth, by 



266 NOTES 

John Estaugh, with Preface by his widow. E. E.'s Testi- 
mony concerning her husband J. E. Several expressions in 
the poem are derived from this little book.] 

Page 248. The Mother's Ghost. 

[A Danish ballad to be found in Grundtvig's Danmarks 
gamle Folkeviser, II. 478, was the basis of this poem.] 



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